One Year inTibet
Copyright by Dave Lassut 2011
Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords
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Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-907630-03-3
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-907630-07-1
email: frankielassut@aol.com
I lifted the pictures in this ditty from the internet. as there was no way I was going to get them, not even if I’d taken a camera. So, if the owners with any copyrights could contact me?
So, I’ll do what Ricardo Semler says, “Ask for forgiveness rather than permission, or you may wait forever”
frankielassut1@aol.com
Foreword.
This magic is by Marianne Williamson:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful ‘beyond’ measure.
It is our light, not our darkness which most frightens us.
We ask ourselves
Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you NOT to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn’t sense the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel inadequate around you.
We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is WITHIN us.
It’s not just in some, it’s in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates us.
*****
In order to not get complicated and increase the sales of Paracetamol, I’ll state it simply. A few hundred years ago, a philosopher called Descartes (I think, therefore I am) came to a deal with the church; as would you, if you were a man and the clergy had hold of your bollocks, underneath which was a strategically placed knife ... that’s how to teach history by the way, and also a great way of getting your own way.
The church came to the agreement that the medical profession should be allowed to fuck up the human body, whilst the church got the mind to fuck up ...
But: “He would not let them take away my soul ...
And having that, I knew that I was whole ...
But your soul is tainted, after the forbidden fruit was bit
And if you’re gormless enough to actually believe that? Your mind is in the shit.
So. The church got the mind, which was good enough as it turns out.
If that hadn’t of happened, I wouldn’t be writing this; so I’m all for the church having a room full of jars of formaldehyde at HQ, containing philosophers balls over the ages. It was a mystery, up to now, why philosophers always talked in high-pitched voices. But the mind, how powerful is it? Is it powerful enough to heal the body? Of course not, that’s why we have pharmaceuticals. Are you stupid or something? How can something that isn’t even real, or of any real use to so many people ... well I mean, you don’t go to work to think, you go to work to pay the bills and do as you’re told, and not forgetting, to ‘work hard’! That’s why it is necessary to stop kids imagining as practically early as possible, so they don’t end up in cloud cuckoo land (that saying is from a play, the Bird, by Aristophanes ... you’ll be a star next pub quiz), and they can actually get a proper job where someone is paid to think for them. That is the perfect society, never mind all that Nirvana and Xanadu bullshit.
Look at this shell. Do you think it is beautiful?
Ask a city kid what it is; you’ll probably get a blank stare.
What question can you ask a feral seagull and a feral kid and get the same answer ...
A: “What is the seaside?”
It would be sad if it weren’t so funny. My god! What an advanced species we’ve turned out to be (LOL!)
A shell is the ex habitation of a slug. The slug breaks from the egg (there’s one miracle humans take for granted), then grows and the shell grows with it (another miracle). But, how does the shell grow? Do you think it might have anything to do with the slug’s mind? If it is, it is every bit as powerful as a humans, or a flea’s for that matter. I’m talking of the sub conscious, not the conscious. If every creature’s conscious mind was the same power, including us that is, humans wouldn’t stand a chance against the slug’s armoury of photon torpedoes.
I watched a programme late on the other night which proved the Descartes/Church thing.
There were four people in hospital. One guy needed a liver and one kidney transplant. Another needed a kidney, and a third, a young girl, needed a heart. Let’s imagine (let’s go cloud cuckoo mumbo jumbo) that the mechanism of the body is run by the subconscious, and Divine energy (can you hear that castration knife being sharpened in a creepy building somewhere?) What if the Divine energy is lacking, and the sub conscious, marvellous as it is, is working overtime to keep the potential train wreck running? Divine energy? That’s energy from source (God? I call it Charlie). Thus stuff comes via the conscious mind, and is always available, of course, but, like a vampire, it has to be invited in (watch True Blood). How do you invite Charlie energy in? You have to ‘allow’ it. Most people disallow it, which means they are full of negative thoughts and therefore negative energy ... this means, ‘You are NOT allowed to come in Charlie, and is called ‘resistance’, and, in this case, resistance is NOT futile, it is extremely powerful. Resistance still allows, but the stuff it allows isn’t very nice, especially as far as the functions of the body are concerned. The guy who wanted the new liver obviously had to have his removed, and you should have seen it. It was difficult for the surgeons to remove because it was five times its normal size. It was lumpy; it had growths on it, things that looked like bubbles ... not a pretty sight. However, it was removed and the new one fitted. In my mind, the mind demon that had produced that was hidden obviously, and ready to start work again on this brand new ‘whipping boy’. There was of course no mention of the man’s mind, because the medical profession can’t go there, they deal with the body ... the man must see the chaplain to get his soul sorted out; or are the hospital chaplains there to see the person off with a wave and a ‘tootle pip!’ The thing was, the man kept rejecting the organs ... I would want to know why? What is he doing in his mind to do that? Could it be a strong belief in operation?
The guy waiting for the kidney had been waiting for five years i.e. living in the hospital (that’s not living, having dialysis several times a week; is it?). The same woman donated a kidney to him, and it worked, but ... the number of pills he had to take every day ... what a nightmare. Constant monitoring.
Dead would be better; it’s not at all bad from what I hear. The young girl got the heart ... I’d love to know the anxiety that was making her previous pump work overtime until it got muscle-bound (I’ve been there, done it).
The best was the last case I saw. This was a young lad (early 20s), displaying a strange human behaviour. He had cancer, and had been told his days were numbered, and so, he had turned into a positive thinking/living energy ball. I find that disturbing. Limit someone’s time, and they have a new lease of life, but promise them a long life, they fall into the humdrum of the world. Was the kid relieved that he wasn’t here for the long haul, which allowed the energy to flow?
Tell someone that they are at work for 8 hours, in a job they don’t like, and they will be downhearted. Tell them they can go home when they are finished, they get a burst of energy (just hope it isn’t a white van man). Tell them that because they haven’t finished, they will have to stay until the job is done? Downhearted?
Tell them they can go an hour early. Ecstatic? Tell them they can go home at dinnertime and give them a hundred quid to spend in the pub?
Or is that only at Christmas?
One thing they didn’t mention was ‘what was really going on in his mind?’ ... People don’t like to give out the truth; it’s embarrassing and humiliating, and ‘weak’. And as important, how much water was he drinking; just water ... I bet, nit. Cancer cells are produced in an acid environment, which is why the body needs to be alkali 7.4%.
If humans don’t constantly top up with clear water, the 95% water body goes into drought conditions, and all hell breaks loose inside.
See the work of Dr F Batmanghelidgh. Read it all, if you aren’t too lazy.
You need to drink water, and you have to allow well-being, and you have to eat food. If you’re a fatty bastard, maybe you ought to look at ‘different’ food? Or, alternatively, you could have those glands removed that make people fat. I’ve never heard of that op, only a gastric band, lipo, fat pills, and insults (from strangers).
The allowing well-being part:
Meditation for 15 mins a day; that’s the best non-pharmaceutical you can get, with no side effects. Well, almost no side effects.
You could fall asleep while meditating, fall off your chair, smash your head on the fire grate, giving you brain damage ... but, a candle you had on gets knocked off the mantelpiece with the shock, sets fire to you, and you spontaneously combust? You could fall on the cat, which would lose its rag and scratch your neck putting deep lacerations in your jugular, and you’d bleed to death? The alternative to that is the Rottweiler attack, which would see you with your throat removed. Your wife might come in, see you off guard, stab you in the heart, and say to the insurance company “He was meditating, and he fell off the chair onto the knife.”
If they ask what the knife was doing on the floor pointing up? Just say “I was lying on the floor, whittling”.
NB: make sure you have a really crap looking wooden statue, or at least a block of wood with some knife marks on it.
All of that’s unlikely of course.
But ... in order to give you this information, I thought I would go the whole hog:
I would go to Tibet, and learn properly. Well I mean, most of the local Buddhists are experts.
Well ok, some of the locals are experts, as most are now Chinese, since the invasion all those years ago when the Lama and many monks from the beleaguered monasteries buggered off. But, that wouldn’t matter as I came from a City with loads of Chinese people in it, so, all I would have to do was mention Coventry University, and I would be hailed as a king. Coming from such a seat of learning which has educated most of your cleverer people does has its advantages, and it’s a well known fact that the future backboners of this country (i.e. Prime Ministers etc) only go to Oxford and Cambridge and Eton because they’re too thick to get into Coventry.
So, wasting no time, off I trotted to the travel agents…
*****
One Year in Tibet
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
‘HUNTING HEIGHT’-CAVEMAN.
Lady in Travel Agents: “Good morning sir! Take a seat”.
Moi: “Thank you, and good morning.”
L: “What can I do for you?”
M: “Erm, I’d like to go to Tibet to do a course in meditation please. Do you have anything like that?”
L: “Hmmm? Let me see”.
Her fingers were an impressive blur on the keyboard; I use but two.
L: “Ah yes sir, here we are, ‘An intensive meditation course holiday’ in
Tibet. Apparently, it’s in an ‘Isolation cave’, which is located on a sheer cliff on the side of a huge mountain. The course lasts twelve months, and is self catering. It’s very cheap too, only five hundred pounds. It says that the furniture is a little sparse, and due to the lack of decent central heating, it could freeze the precious danglies off a Brass Monkey in the winter.”
I thought; short and soft …
M: “Hmmmm. Well then, twelve months, can I do it? I'll definitely be good when I come back, knackers or no knackers. I’ll take some of that grease channel swimmers use and spread it on the old scroat.
Twelve months In Tibet! That’s not as long as Brad did in that film, and he survived ok. This meditation thing, like all good things must take a long time to master. Oh well, nothing worthwhile is quick and easy, except masturbation maybe?
Hmmmmm?”
“Ok, I'll take that”
I wrote a cheque and handed it to the girl ... (ha! I’d be long gone before they cashed it).
“Thank you sir. Your flight will be on Sunday morning, could you go to the hospital on Saturday afternoon at 4, for your inoculation against Tibetan Condor talon cuts and grazes, they tend to attack small guys like you as you aerate your lungs each morning stood on the cave entrance platform. You see, they mistake you ‘dwarves’ for succulent Tibetan Hares from their ‘hunting height’. This makes them very excited, and they, 99% of the time, pick you up with great accuracy on a calculated swoop, when they realise their mistake however, they drop you, so just hope that if it happens you, land on something soft.”
I thought deeply?????
Was I making a mistake?
*****
Well, Saturday afternoon arrived. I packed a suitcase, after deciding to take it with me, which would then enable me, after the hospital visit, to go on a farewell bender, get steamed, get rejected by numerous women, threatened by doormen for bothering numerous women, and then, in a very depressed state; stop in a posh hotel for the night and maybe trash it as part of the wild energy release during a sexual frustration and disappointment tantrum. It would be nice to destroy someone else’s furniture for a change, and save me yet another trip to a second hand shop. I packed jeans, jumpers, socks, underpants, pyjamas, travel iron, cross channel ‘Tibetan Winter’ grade scroat protection grease; wet wipes, horny mag someone sent me, etc. Enough gear for twelve months (providing there was a laundrette cave nearby?) then set off to the Walsgrave Hospital.
*****
The glossy lipped receptionist took my details, and then pointed up the corridor ...
“Third door on the right Mr Lassut, walk through the blood test crowd, through a set of double doors, report in, then take a seat” she said, and then gave me that nice, don’t get the wrong signal indicated by an erection and the need to ask for a date ‘ fit receptionist’ smile. I watched her for a few seconds.
“Something else?” she asked
“No. I was just wanting to see if you were going to start stereotypically doing your nails.”
I thought my way through the miserable looking “I’m tired” blood test mob (if I were Dracula, I wouldn’t touch a drop from this lot), found the room with the aid of a mega, out of retirement and can’t believe it, interested pensioner. I reported in, and sat down. I was called in five minutes later. The doctor, who was looking at a magazine, looked like that Japanese guy off the Karate Kid, you know, the teacher. He looked up at me.
“Aaaah! Good morning! You the guy who go to Tibet for twelve months to study meditation eh!? Please take seat”.
“Thanks. “Yes, that’s right”, says I. I sat down and put my suitcase by the side of the chair.
“You sure you want to go? Veeeery difficult! Can you pay the price mentally for what you ask? No sex either for twelve loooong montthhsss! To say nothing of the Chinese invaders, who may remove testicles if they no like you”.
“Yes, I think I can afford it emotionally. I’ve actually just had a loooong sex free period; the cave experience will at least be new scenery, and to top it all off ... no chance of rejection to rub salt into the gaping wound, and no furniture to trash, receiving horrid cuts and splinters in the process.
The Chinese invaders will love me, remember, we taught them sociology, compassion, and a course called Tibetans are lovely when you get to know them, in our University. Tomorrow can’t come too soon.”
“Huh! You wanna try Wetherspoons in Trinity Street! If you can’t score in there, stay in Tibet and join monastery! Ha ha haa! You might score with pretty Chinese student, then you be ok! Diplomatic Immunity! Ya!” (I didn’t dare tell him. I had more chance of scoring 180 on a dartboard, and they didn’t have one).
“Ha ha … dead funny! Hellowwww!” I thought (again … getting good at this thinking stuff!)
By way ... you scared of Condor? Know how to fall in case dropped?
“Yes I know how to fall and I’m more scared of my granny’s budgie actually. I did Judo once. I’ll just get it into Tatashio Gatame and strangle it.”
“Hmmmmm!? You do look well padded just in case, to take impact! Ok, so be it then, sit down, roll up sleeve. This drug will make you feel a little drowsy later; also sick; so no alcohol please for next twenty four hour”.
Great! Bender up the shute!
Up went the sleeve. He rubbed my arm with cotton wool soaked in that stuff that helps not the pain of entry, and in went the needle. I had an immediate subconscious surge of fear as my comfort zone began to dissolve, or was I entering one? Would I regret my decision in a few weeks time? How would they cope at work without me?! What about that red gas bill!? I was sure I’d left the tap running!? I decided not to go! I looked at the doctor and said.
“I’m sorry, I’ve changed my ...
Ugh ... I felt sick already; that was bloody quick. He took out the needle.
“Sorry Mr Lassut?”
I said, I’m not going; I’vvve cheeeggggddd mmmmmmmmyy
Mmmmmmiiiinnzndzdddzzzddd.
*****
CHAPTER 2
ELECTROLY SIS! (Frankenstein’s sister? LOL)
I returned to consciousness.
I was cold.
I was lying on ... stone?
I immediately thought someone had broken into my house, mugged me and nicked my carpet!? Good job I didn’t try and stop him, I would have been in jail now and paying him compensation (no doubt).
But no! When my head cleared, I realised where I was ... ! ... Oh maaaaaam!
aaaaaahm! Aaaaam! (echo)
Tell you what though; it had been one hell of a sleep! Best I’d had in years; I felt ‘mega’ refreshed; that inoculation drug should be on the NHS in sleeping tablet form. Hold on though ... was I dreaming? I pinched myself ... Ouch! ...
Nothing?
Again ... Ouch!
Apparently not.
If I was, I would just have to wait for the next toilet call, cos that used to wake me up as a kid: well, you always have a wee wee in your sleep when you’re wetting the bed; at least; I did. I couldn’t remember dreaming anything either come to think of it; just a lovely; nothingness deep sleep; so yes ... Condor inoculation sleeping pills.
How had I got here?
*****
Light from the Sun via the Tibetan sky beamed through the cave entrance and spilled onto the floor and walls, gradually petering out as the angle afforded imitation privacy to the mysterious depths. There was a very large, inward opening, quasi castle Dracula, wooden door, hung on strong looking hinges at the large oblong shaped cave entrance; which was good, as it would keep out the worst of the Winter weather when it arrived. I say the worst, because when I got up and tried it, the top couple of feet were missing? Ventilation?
I couldn’t work out the small crate with the pinta clock on it, just out to the left of the door on the platform? Some sort of joke! Ho ho.
But … I was here! I was there! I would have a wee soon to check. I noticed my clothing, ha! Not exactly dressed for a board meeting. I was wearing a sort of an elasticated non-disposable nappy, sandals, and a red and purple sheet. I had nothing else. Not even hair. They had even shaved my head! Was I now a Tibetan monk?
I stroked my head … not a discernable cut, or sticking plaster; they had done a good job too! My ears were burning ferociously though ...
Hoooohaaawwww!
I felt the lobes; there were two rows of little holes in each one?
Then it dawned ... Crocodile clips! Those big ones you would use for jump-starting your car. They had removed all the hair from my entire nut using electrolysis! Mind you, I had to admit, I had never managed to achieve such a smooth chin with my Mach III (let’s hope they come up with something boasting four blades). It was also good not to have to walk round looking as if a Tarantula family were doing some simultaneous synchronised crawling out of my nose and ears.
My suitcase containing the iron and the all important ‘Insuscroat’ grease (™) were nowhere to be found? What would I do when creases appeared in my sheet and the first flakes of snow began to fall, taking the degrees with them!?
I wandered, lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er ... Tibet, to the platform, and looked out, checking the sky for laser eyed, sharp clawed, hunting Condors first.
The Himalayas looked brilliant! Made Coventry look like Birmingham. Made Chichester look like Mablethorpe. Made Disneyland look like Sellafield, and I couldn’t help but think that maybe certain people should look very seriously at ‘themselves’. Especially their eyes, the windows of the soul.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmm?
He’s only angry bad cos he couldn’t get into Coventry Uni.
I then began again to wonder how they had actually got me there (making the end of this story a real stinker, cos I honestly haven’t got a clue ... I like to know), because I was in a cave, chipped into the side of a sheer cliff, on a huge mountain? Maybe they put me on the plane, and gave the crew instructions, and they then Chinese Whispered me here? (There’s those Chinese again. I hope this isn’t an omen).
But up a sheer cliff?
Maybe there was a back door?
I decided to check.
Feeling my way along the wall, I edged my way through the coolness. It was pretty dim in the inner intestine of the cave, because of that angle I mentioned before, plus the turn, which would have still rendered the place dark because of the turn. My eyes got sort of semi used to the near dark, and I could make out some shapes a few metres ahead of me, which appeared to be a pile of … vibrators? Had women monkettes in the past been cheating their way round the ‘no chance of sex bit’?
Did they have women monks in Tibet?
Tell you what though, what a good name for a group, The Monkettes
The Monkettes Theme
Here we come
Walking through Tibetan street
We get the funniest looks from
Every Chink we meet
Hey hey we’re the Buddhist Monkettes
And people say we monkette around
But we’re too busy hiding from the Chinese
They kill us, and make us frown
Please don’t forget to laugh
The vibrators turned out to be a pile of candles, which means they may have still been used as dils? But, but but, there again ... at what temperature does wax melt or even distort?
And: 2, would the wick be soggy afterwards making it difficult to light?
Okay: 3, would it burn with more ferocity and be seen for miles around after it had been dried out, by waving it around in a lukewarm room? These are questions that must be answered before women can have fun with wax candles ... because there are some really good shapes available, ‘and’, you can make your own!
There was also a big plastic bag full of matches, and a note stuck to the bag ...
I attempted to strike a match on the side of the cave immediately to my right in order to read the note. It actually took about ten matches. Oh God, were they damp? No, it turned out that the wall was damp! What a plonker! I then decided to use a bit of common sense.
I chose a bit of wall to the left of the damp patch, tried it with my hand, and found it dry. Yes!
The note said:
‘Enough candles for one year and one match for each candle, don’t waste any, and don’t whatever you do, get them damp; by trying to strike them on the damp bit of wall immediately to your right. The bit to the left of the damp bit is dry; test it with your hand first. Common sense. Plonker!’
Hmmmmm.
There were also half a dozen bundles of sticks, 6'' long by 1/4 '' diameter? Hmmmm? I’m sure their use would become apparent in time? There was also a couple of cutthroats, a sharpening block; for the shaving of my head no doubt (no Wilko shaving foam!). This vast array of treasure (was Aladdin a previous owner of this cave?) was completed with a bowl, a tin plate, a knife, fork and spoon and a cup. Any other pieces of equipment will be added as the story goes on, because I can’t think of what they may be yet? Microwave maybe? DVD player? 42inch Plasma TV?
Whatever ... my meditation course had started. But who would teach me?
Oooommmmmmmmmmm!
I found a chair on the opposite side of the cave, just a little further along. It was complete with arms, and had some pieces of carpet laid on it, and ‘Meditation Chair’ written on the backrest. Next to it was a book … Abraham-Hicks, “Ask and It Is Given”. Ah, well-being, allowing meditation, coool! A good teacher. I sat down and made myself comfy.
I was glad that it was this particular magical book, and not one by the Lama or one of the other leading monks, on meditation, because they go a bit far for the working man. They tend to meditate for far longer that fifteen minutes a day. Some of them do it for days at a time, and some of them even go on a voyage of discovery, through what are called Bardos, or ‘intermediate’ states, just to check out that the red carpet is out and ready for them to die and walk back as a VIP.
If everyone dies when they choose (at a different level of being of course, sometimes), you can hardly blame the Chinese for ending the earthly existence of souls. Maybe some of the Tibetans were that pissed off at not having a MacDonalds, when even those miserable bastards in Moscow have one ... well, you’d want to die wouldn’t you? Life just wouldn’t be worth living. I mean, it’s very clean living in Tibet, and they all love until a ripe old age. So, what if a load of them want to open a hospital and start the Tibetan NHS? All the beds would be empty, and they would be bored. So, a few blocked arteries would work wonders for them, and they would then get their desire; to hack away at their friends; especially if they didn’t like them.
Tibetan Surgeon Wielding Scalpel: “Ha! Bastard! Remember Yak you own me but tell me to fuck off?!”
Tibetan Blocked Artery Patient: “I was joking. Aaaahhhhhgghhhh!”
And ‘you’ though the Chinese were ‘bad’.
So. An hour’s meditation would have been too much for an everyday bloke, but fifteen minutes in a resistance free state, fine. But, as I was in a cave, I could do it more than the ordinary man, but ...would I be doing it for the pleasure, or, to ‘get’ something?
That’s a big problem, doing something, apart from work, to gain something ‘material’? Know why it’s a problem? Because you think you would feel better with it ... but, there stands a powerful law of the Universe ... you can’t have something to make you feel good, until you feel good. Like attracts like, so, you can only have something to make you feel good, when you already feel good. Whoever made that one up must have been a right wanker. So, you can only have something to enhance the good feeling; you MUST already feel good to ‘allow’. And that’s where 99.99% of people fall in this game; and then they slag it off saying it doesn’t work. Actually, it’s because they are negative people who only allow in the negative (they tend to mumbo jumbo anything that differs thinking wise ... that’s why God invented factories and shit jobs, and arguments with spouses, and kids to shout at ... in order to vent that frustration. Meditation only helps, but you have to like doing it.
Ask a writer who actually enjoys writing “Would you write even if you knew you’d never get anywhere with it financially?” . They would answer, “yes, I can’t help it”, if they were honest. Ask me:
“Frankie. If you thought you were never going to get anywhere financially with writing, would you still do it?”
“No! Would I fuck. I want shit loads of money. Primarily to piss people off, and secondly, to piss people off. Failing this writing lark, I’d probably go into drug dealing, or trafficking people or something ...definitely not plumbing, it looks too boring.”
A candle, courtesy of me now flickered each side on little holders cut into the cave wall. I browsed the book, and thought, and …
I closed my eyes, and watched and listened inside myself.
Chaos! Thoughts flying everywhere, negative internal chatter (we all have it). I had no ‘inner, allowing calm’, this was going to take some work. However; for the meantime, I enjoyed the temporary inner circus.
I tried to calm my mind, and fell asleep in the process. I woke up some time later, an hour according to the wall clock. I wondered where the hell I was again, realised, stretched, and then just wandered around thinking about things, and stared at a few parts of the wall, and looked out over Tibet, then looked at the wall again ... nice wall! Good God, ‘boredom’ seems to be standard; where is all this so called inner happiness? Why aren’t I jumping round for joy? After all, I got exactly what I wanted didn’t I? Hmmmmmmmm?
I got even ‘more’ bored: then got fed up of being bored, and decided to get curious; before I got bored again, and so decided to go further into the cave; and to my pleasant emotioned surprise, “Ahhhhhh!”, discovered a light switch, a shower cubicle with ‘hot and cold taps’ cut into the wall, and next to that, a small sink with hot and cold taps and a mirror … useful for keeping the bonce smooth. I can only assume that the hot water came from a spring or something? I was so pleased that the taps were of the twist variety, and not those you press, and when you let go … stop! So bloody annoying.
I recalled one occasion in Coventry, Pool Meadow bus station loos (those where you enter for a jimmy, and come out in a relationship). These press taps were in operation, and I always had found it impossible to wash my hands. How can you wash your hands while holding the tap on? So, In order to combat this obstacle …as a famous man once said, “Obstacles do not exist to be surrendered to, but only to be broken;” I had a beautifully timed flash of inspiration.
I held the tap down with my forehead!
Excellent! Clean hands!
The drier didn’t work of course.
Upon eventually leaving the loos, fully valeted, I was mobbed without mercy, by adoring fans; all because one kid shouted ... “Mum! Mum! It’s Arnold Rimmer!” (I wonder where they got that name?)
Next to the shower was the loo … phew! I really wouldn’t have fancied sitting on the edge of the overhang doing my ‘business’….I mean; what if the wind changed? What if a Condor spotted me in such a compromising position? I was sure they wouldn’t mind pooping plump Tibetan hare? Probably dispatch me and rub me on some grass for a while? As a thrush does to a snail; before devouring me. I didn’t fancy doing it in some far distant corner of the cave, as I know the free molecular abundant nature of my ‘business’; as do a few of my ex friends.
In any case, I needed a wee wee ... didn’t wake up. Tweaked my niblicksqueal! ... Still didn’t wake up. So be it. Put me away; felt the slightest trickle down my leg ... crap nappy; still didn’t wake up. I definitely wasn’t dreaming. I know ... have ‘sex’, and I’m bound to wake up just before the good bit ... now I WAS dreaming!
On the wall opposite was a little wardrobe. It contained spare body sheets, hung up on wire coat hangers, and a few crap nappies. To top off this luxury, a pipe of about six inch diameter came out of the wall, again at six inches above ground level. It ran along for about five feet, and then went back into the wall again. Above one end was a large valve; there was a note attached ... ‘central heating’. Wow! This really, really was a top-notch pent cave! I sure as hell wouldn’t want to buy this from the local estate agents; it wouldn’t be in my price range, the Beckhams maybe, but definitely not mine. Mind you, didn’t the estate agent woman say it was crap? Ah well, never mind, I never expected anything posh. I mean; who wants gilt mirrors, a deep ‘shag’ pile and room service? I dooooo!
So all was well and good. In fact, it reminded me of home.
I didn’t venture any further into the cave, as it looked scarier than my lockless ajar wardrobe back home ‘seemed’ in the dark: and there was a very faint, funny odour? Ammonia?
Hmmmmmmmmmm? Monster BO?
Now though, it was beginning to get dark outside, what on earth would I eat? I sat against the wall near the entrance, and pondered my gastronomic survival. Mind you, I was so glad I didn’t find a kettle and 1,000 Not Poodles. Some time passed, and evening started to draw in. I began to sense a weird sound?
There appeared, to the still ‘smarting’ lobes, to be a low decibel noise like leaves blowing in the wind, it grew, train coming? Naaaa, they hardly run in this country, never mind in a cave in Tibet: then, all hell broke loose …
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh! (coward at the heart, and a few other pubs).
…as a stream of bats began to leave the cave for the evening to spend some time food shopping in the sky. Haggling with the moths on a sonic level.
Lordy! No one mentioned pets!
CHAPTER 3
OZZY MK 2
Gosh! My stomach was hungrily rumbling, and I had an obstacle between that horrid noise and satisfaction … nowt to flaming eat! And, as my, and everyone’s friend once said; “obstacles do not exist to be surrendered to, but only to be broken” … I had another inspirational flash!
I seriously considered hopping around on all fours pretending to be a Tibetan Hare, in the cave mouth, near the overhang, right by the door (well, bit dodgy innit), and attract a passing Condor; then, during the vicious clawed attack, simply apply the Judo move, and wring its neck! I could use the feathers as a symbolic headdress? ... Naa ! I then remembered all the bad publicity Ozzy Osbourne had got for chewing a bat on stage … Hmmmmmmmmmm?
Well, at least I knew what the gap above the door was for….so they, the bats, could get back in after I’d locked up for the night ... after setting the milk clock for two pints that is. The only drawback to bat catching ... i.e. standing in the cave entrance flailing your arms about trying to grab the little leather winged flying rats is ... they catch on immediately. Their sonar tells them that Ozzy mk2 is there AGAIN, dancing around like an epileptic, trying to catch one or two of their number. Bat sonar dictates that an unaided human isn’t going to catch any and they laugh sub-sonically. This leaves you with one option ... stealth (similar to trashing foreign villages with triangular planes).
It was time for a wander into the depths of the cave. I placed the bowl over my head with fork handles stuck to it; like a miner. After about a hundred metres or so, the cave roof went to about thirty feet high. I had already noticed the strong smell of ammonia, and a sucking noise as I lifted my feet. Bat bumgoo! There they all were though, hanging onto the roof ... asleep… I gave out a few minor whimpers as the hot wax ran down my neck each time I looked up; until I eventually learned that to repeat a negative action which hurts; is silly. So I held the helmet in my hand when I looked up, and didn’t hurt myself again. I must write to Mr PM about this amazing discovery! (Except that he never hurts himself … only innocent children and adults). Frankie Lassut ... OBE! I then made my way out again. How would I dislodge a couple of nice fat ones for dinner? Well. I happened to notice a few very handy lumps of rock lying around on my way there, so I had collected an armful on my way to a little cheap shopping at Batalan(d).
Method of catching bats (I scratched the following onto the cave wall for future visitors). Wait until they are snoring, then scop (throw ... Queen’s actual English) a decent sized brick up at the ceiling. Hey presto! One bat! Spirit suitably evicted with an " I was having a nice dream" look frozen onto its face at the moment of contact with a well aimed lump of strata.
Ok. I had my quarry; now, quick walk back to the front of the cave, and … food and place of consumption preparation time ...I picked a nice part of the cave, near the entrance with ‘wow’ scenery, for the classy five star restaurant … ‘The Cave’. The kitchen was a little further back.
The ‘semi naked chef’ sets up shop.
I scratched the menu into the ‘cave’ wall using my handcrafted Brickmate pen, which even had a bodysheet clip which I’d cleverly added, made from a used matchstick and a strip of hem fabric, stolen of course from my sheet. I wrote posh this time as the place was five star.
Menu: for The Cave Restaurant.
1. Candle roast bat.
2. Tibetan style bat wings.
3. Bat drumsticks (small, but very rich and filling).
4. Crispy Tibetan bats wings (dried in the mid-day Sun. Very expensive).
5. Plate of Parsons Noses.
6. Roast bat WITH (with) giblets.
7. Chinese style bat (using those sticks as chopsticks ... impossible! I demand a fork!”)
8. Bat Shish Kebabs (more stick use).
9. Spit Roast Bat (sticks).
10. Bat Pate ... made by chef, using a desperation method, i.e. ... pummelling the bat with large brick for ages (nothing much else to do except meditate).
11. Bat sushi. (Skinned, raw bat and loads (I mean loads) of imagination).
12. Cricket bat (unavailable because of lack of crickets).
13. GM Bat (unavailable due to lack of Government funded scientists).
The meal always ended with the breaking of the small wishbones. My wishes never came true while in the cave, because, to achieve trueness, you have to keep them secret, and that is really difficult when there’s only you there, and I couldn’t lie; cos I aint keen on war.
But ... I tried anyway. Cos God loves messing triers about …. don’t you?
(YESSSSSSS ... especially you pimple plums).
Cheers O loving Creator. I tried a wish anyway.
“Oh! Dear wishbone fairy, I wish that sausage, egg and chips were on a plate in front of me ... or at least something other than bat; and Ice Cream for afters too please; vanilla. I didn’t believe I’d get it for one minute though, and with that mindset … I didn’t of course.
Sweet Menu …
Don’t have one.
Coffee and mints (cup of water, and a small, thin square bit of bat).
BURP!
Followed by … a deeply satisfied sleep; yeah right!
*****
Time passes sssssssssssssssssssssssss
>>>>FF
CHAPTER 4
WHAT TO DO?
I woke up one morning, stretched, ran along the visible length of the cave a couple of times to keep fit, showered, and brushed my teeth. I then meditated (which was slowly beginning to come together). It is difficult, because while on the fifteen minute medi, one has to keep ones attention on ones breathing, but, those thoughts, which are metaphysical energy, have a way of slipping in past the fence without you noticing them, and, the next minute, you’re thinking of something and almost entering the dream state. It is almost like counting sheep, but having to stay alert at the same time ... not easy, but it sounds easy. It’s almost boring, or Baaaaing if you wish.
One technique is to visualise the number 4, then a few seconds later, 3 ... 2 ... 1, and then start at 4 again. While you are doing this you must hold the visualised picture of the number, and not let any thoughts slip in. Try it. I once read a book by Wayne Dyer; he said he once managed it from 18 down, that’s some going. Following this aerobic and spiritually allowing pleasantness, I went out to collect the milk from the platform, which was placed not too far from the door. I reckon I could have just reached it with a stretch in an emergency; such as the hinges rusting and the door jamming?
Dread the thought.
There were two pints there of course, and a box of cereal, all of which did shock me a little weeks ago, I must admit, but not now. I then had a very strong thought … “I think I’m going to need some salad and veg and a little fruit, or my body is going to be unwell on a diet of meat and cereal, complemented with the odd bitter leaf from the cave wall”.
The next day when I woke up, I stretched, ran along the visible part of the cave again, showered, teeth … meditated, getting my moneys worth. I then went out to collect my milk from the cave entrance (cereal once every few days) … it was there, together with some lettuce, cucumber, radish, carrots and sweet potatoes.
A thought came to me. It was this.
The mind is truly a very powerful thing, when the emotion accompanying the thought is strong; miraculous things can and do happen.
Do you know what I mean?
I then had another pleasant thought. When I returned home, I may feel like sharing my knowledge. Hmmm? Would that mean that I would have to talk to an audience?
My next thought said ... ‘Yes’.
Ooooh! That would be difficult! I’d acted once, but standing in front of people was terrifying.
My next thought was.
‘What about some practice’?
Maybe I could talk from the overhang just outside the cave mouth, to an imaginary audience?
Yes! That thought seemed like a good idea!
There is a lot to be said about talking to yourself.
Not all of it negative.
*****
The next day:
I made my way to the door and peeked through the crack, and looked out onto my transparent audience … the auditorium was half full, not bad for a badly advertised event. They were talking amongst themselves. I felt nervous, ‘stage fright’! Gulp.
Imagination can produce sweaty palms, can’t it!
‘Yes’ I hear you say; but nevertheless, isn’t imagination a great thing.
The auditorium lights went down, everything went black, and then a bank of spotlights came to life and washed the platform, lighting the cave through the ajar door. My heart tried its best to jump from my chest. The audience became eerily quiet. I walked out from behind the door, cup of water in my hand, and squinted into the wattage.They applauded. I smiled and waved at them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming tonight to my ‘CAVEMOUTH LECTURE’.
My mind cast me a mental picture of a special event ...
I talked.
“I’d been out for a drink one night. It was autumn, and the weather was quite mild, so I decided to walk back through the ruins of Coventry Cathedral. I didn’t see any ghosts in the shadows, although I really did want to. Maybe we can’t have what we want? I left the ruins, and walked down a treed alley back towards the main road, and modern civilisation. The trees had cast off their leaves, which lay in piles, just waiting to hitch a lift on the next gust. Not many people look at leaves in a city centre.
Under the amber of a street light, my eye caught one ... it seemed to be what I could only describe as ‘perfect’. It was huge, like a big hand. There was a bench, I sat down and studied the leaf. I felt pure fascination and awe as I looked at the surface. The spine, the offshoots of the spine, the ‘veins’. It struck me that it was a hell of a beautiful ‘working’ design, for a ‘life form’ which is a magnificent and intricate member of a massive Universe, which the majority of humans believe to be an accident.The colours it displayed were ‘wow’. I decided to take it home with me, and send it, through the post to a friend whom I loved most dearly. The rest of the leaves just lay there silently ... although I’m sure they all wished their companion a fond farewell.
Well, I was so engrossed, I didn’t see it coming through the dark sky; the Condor that is. All of a sudden this huge bird swoops past with claws drawn to take me home for dinner. I jumped back and let out a ‘waaaa!’ The lights immediately came up. I looked on horrified; it was circling for another attack! I rushed back into the cave and closed the door; I think … I hoped! It was too big to get through the gap. I had this horrible feeling that Judo wasn’t going to help either; judging by the size of the thing (Ostrich being a handy guide), so I rushed to my meditation chair and desperately looked under it, in case I’d missed the book on how to get yourself out of trouble with Kung Fu; cos all these monks do it don’t they?
I had claw marks across my chest and my sheet was ripped; just like Bruce in Enter the Dragon, so Kung had to be the answer. There was nothing there. Nothing, except a spider or two, a pound coin? And a condom in its packet?
Hang on! I was wasting my time. Kung Fu is the Shaolin mob! Damn! There had to be another way. But: what was it? I sat on my meditation chair, and closed my eyes and began to clear my mind just like Bruce had done when trapped in Han’s caves.
I closed my eyes.
Shit.
CHAPTER 5
‘PULT’
I munched on my supper, sat at my exclusive, reserved space. The setting, the moment, was so romantic: candle roast bat, salad, and a cup of milk, by candle light, overlooking a Tibetan sunset. This was certainly better then listening to the police sirens in Coventry warning legal burglars of their impending approach. Better too than listening to the Keystone copter hovering noisily over your neighbourhood at 3am; warning their buddies on the ground to steer clear of any houses that were being broken into, unless that is the owners gave the burglar a ‘telling off’, and sent him on his way with an item to pawn, and some sandwiches …
“Arrest that honest, hard working homeowner please, he’s obviously upset that burglar, cos his crooked face adorns not a smile anymore”. Ahhhh! Such is life for the oppressed. I’d really like to get up and tell the people ‘why’ the criminal is protected … but, would they listen?
Anyway. The meditation practice had silenced my mind. I now had a noisy active part, ‘and’ the eye of the storm … my highway to creation. I ask the questions inside, and the answers arrive inside the mind, and outside the body, through a thing called synchronicity (you’d probably call it co-incidence). Wunderbar! I was becoming a philosopher. Philos is Greek; it means the ‘Lover’, while Sofia is ‘Wisdom’.
Philos Sofia, the lover of wisdom.
The fifteen minutes of concentrating on breathing was doing ok too, and I was gentle about shooing the thoughts that managed to squeeze in undetected and take over my mind, and sometimes send me snoozing. If I was trying to quieten my mind, because people do have a lot of mind chatter they don’t know about until they begin to listen ‘in’, I would take an angry voice (developed sometime in the past), and make it into a suitable person, then give them a zippy mouth like the character in the children’s Rainbow programme, and then I would zip their mouths shut. This is what life does to you when you’re living in forgetfulness. Once you’ve silenced your mind, the feeling you have, and carry round with you is marvellous; like being in a nosy room, and then suddenly getting ‘peace’.
So then ‘inner self’ ... how do I deal with this Condor should it return?
I didn’t have an answer in any way shape or form after 10 seconds, so I threw a wild tantrum on the floor; my usual way. It didn’t work, as usual? (Cos if you always do what you’ve always done ... you’ll always get what you’ve always got).
So I decided to wait, and get on with something interesting … i.e. a cave drawing of me hunting bats; to give anthropologists from other planets, in a million or two years time, some idea of the evolved, enlightened, advanced thinking superior species which inhabited the Earth yet wiped itself out through war and the destruction of its environment. It happened while I was drawing a pretty lousy version of me. I thought ... “No point in drawing my nappy, cos it’s under the sheet, and you haven’t got a rubber; helloowwww.
Nappy? ... Nappy? ... Elastic; hmmmmm ... a quick mental image down the neural highway; of a catapult!
Ok … nappy elastic! No problem … catapult? Catapult?
Another mental pic … wire coat hanger!
Job sussed! It took me half an hour to knock up my ‘pult’ from my inspired blueprint, and another ten to find sufficient ammunition. Not bad that, only ‘forty minutes’ and I’m nearly ready to have an arms fair. Must keep that in mind and enquire as to the cost of floor space when returning home. I couldn’t think of a sales gimmick though, so I decided to think while active, by firing some stones at the wall as target practice; i.e. whilst concentrating on that, another part of the mind, with the help of the medi, learns to detach and provide that silent runway, which is why some people think well while they drive. Let the artillery attack begin.
Upon inspection of the wall that I had peppered with my strata shells, I suddenly found my sales gimmick. How wonderful.
Lassut’s catapults … ‘weapons of moss destruction’. I’m sure I would become very rich soon through the controlled misery of others.
However. I was ready for the ‘enemy’.
I retreated to my chair, craving the inner silence.
Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
CHAPTER 6
‘EL CONDOR ‘PASSA’ GAIN
The next morning, I first took my exercise ‘nappy running’. I forgot that I had taken out the elastic and almost immediately fell down with them round my ankles. Embarrassed and humiliated (?), I quickly ran to the wardrobe and donned a new pair.
I finished off my trot, showered, teeth; then meditated. I then dressed for battle … which was actually achieved firstly by the ceremonial donning of my sheet; and secondly, the donning, I enjoy ‘donning’ (it really means Do n’ing ... i.e. do nothing … a great pastime, which the working class acquire on the sick). Yes, secondly the donning of a pair of ears. That’s what I said, yes. I had made them by bending another coat hanger into the shape of a pair of those Bunny-girl ears, the Playboy ones; the type nice looking girls wear around town on a Saturday night; meet nice boys cos they look sexy, then do nice sexy things … have nice babies, have nice arguments, nice divorces, etc. Bunny girl ears have a lot to answer for. I had then covered them with bat skins, which I held together with bat skin leather string. I then made some small nicks in the skins with one of my handcrafted stone tools, tied them together, and slipped the fur over the coat hanger ears … simple. This would make me look even more like a Tibetan hare, and ensure attack; proving that the Condor was intent on my destruction and giving me a lame excuse (if needed), to go to war … to which I was going to go anyway, no matter what people thought (who does that remind you of … think back now). Frankie Lassut ... OBE.
I tested my aim, it was ok; should be able to hit the target and produce a satisfying puff of feathers, and thus end the existence of my tormentor. A machine gun on a steady mount with a few belts of large calibre shells may have made life easier, but would surely have rendered my pin sharp accurate story un-interesting. But still, should I run out of stones … who knows what miracles may manifest?
CAVEMOUTH LECTURE No 2.
I finished my dinner; bat drumstick salad (a new dish), and nervously prepared myself for the second lecture, which was going to be a continuation of the first. Standing behind the stage door, I grew quite nervous, because it sounded like there were a lot more people in than last time; the word had got round. It was quite an effort walking out onto the platform, as I had inserted the catapult down the back of my nappy, and the ammo down the front; I only hoped none of my shells fell out during my talk. A few of them were quite sharp too, and I decided to keep my ‘platform walking’ down to a minimum in order to stop any disasters which would result in me leaving boyhood abruptly behind, and quickly entering manhood, resulting in an unpopular ‘knock kneed’ walkabout for a couple of weeks; and immediately having to conduct a solo, in cave Bar Mitsfa. Where would I get an appropriate cap?
Where would I get a Rabbi at such short notice?
Maybe I’d have to play two characters?
Shut up!
Ok.
I then fitted my hare ears. These would get a laugh, and also cause the audience to remember something ‘different’ about the evening, and therefore take in some of the information. I hoped the Condor was nearby hunting? I walked from behind the door and onto the platform.
There was a huge round of applause, some cheering, and some whistling … Oh boy! I could get used to this. I bowed, then raised my hands to calm the audience down.
I took a prolonged glance at the massive crowd. There were people of all ages, which was good. I couldn’t help but notice the large number of Chinese faces too? Must be on holiday or something? Nice of them to pop along. Wonder if they like Tibetan food? Whatever that may be? Surely not bat.
Do they not enjoy the different culture? Do they find the peaceful locals pleasant and hospitable? Do they not walk and meditate in the lovely forests? Do they go visit the ancient monasteries? Send a few postcards home? Whatever. I then signalled the lights be turned way on down; and once again; I was under the spotlight.
Someone shouted … “nice ears!”
“Wearing them in for a Bunny Girl!” I shouted back.
(Laughter)
Ladies and gentlemen; I ended the last lecture; or should I say ‘I was rudely interrupted’; whilst talking about a leaf I’d picked from the floor. I had found great beauty in its intricate design, and had therefore decided to send it to a friend. Leaves though? Have you ever wondered about them? Why do trees produce them?
Let me tell you.
It’s all to do with a process called Photosynthesis, which is the gathering and using of Sunlight, for energy. One of the magical ‘behaviours’ of leaves and trees is the fact that they ‘breathe’ Carbon Dioxide, that’s the gas we breathe out as a waste product. Our waste gas is absorbed by the leaves, which in return, give out oxygen, which we breathe. Magic really isn’t it. But, there is a problem. There are too many trees on the planet, especially in groups what are called rainforests. That means it rains a lot, and, as everyone hates rain, but loves glorious sunshine. Well. How do we then remedy this problem and give the people what they want?