Sunday, 10 February 2013

I've spent the past week under the Bagwash Pastrami; Dr Mahatma-Cohte Ayemowdaheer



Dashed odd sort of week. Brain been behavin' like a damp Austin Mini - cough cough splutter chug chug kangaroo, that sort of thing. Should be grateful to have a brain at all I suppose but I do wish that the ruddy thing were more reliable. Can't get more than about twenty mph out of it at the moment. Fog between the ears; rest of the world cut off, as the famous old weather forecast went.

Did manage to start an excitin' little experimental adventure on the interwebnet, scribbled a few more lines towards the next weighty opus magnum, the tome of the year and whatnot, that sort of thing.

Spent the rest of my time loinclothed and perched on top of the Henry Moore sculptures in the formal garden. Less of a wind in the formal garden, reduces the wind-chill do you see? The venerable Bagwash keeps tellin' me that hypothermia and chilblaining-of-the-butt-ox is all in the mind anyway. May well be for him, since he spends most of his life standing on his head wavin' his sandals in the air. Not convinced, personally. Never understood why I have to get into minimal native clobber and practice lateral head-nods to find enlightenment. Still, you pays your money and you takes your medicine. If it was good enough for The Beatles its probably not going to do me any lasting harm.

Anyway, it was around about a quarter to lunch on last Wednesday when I suddenly saw the meaning of his words - everything is in the mind, absolutely everythin'. Everything of value, anyway. Can you imagine if it wasn't all in the mind? Where would we be if happiness, fulfilment, success, peace, inspiration, love and that certain self-satisfied smugness you get from a good belch were actually tangible things to be found under bushes, behind trees, tucked away in cupboards or hidden behind sedentary people who haven't been moved for a while? If they were real things that you could look outside of yourself for? What then eh?

The whole damned planet would be like a ruddy Calcutta riot, with folk searching everywhere and a stampede every time someone held up a tin of "Higginthorpe's Lifetime Achievement" and shouted 'I've found one'. Ooh look - there's a sack of "Slightly Salted Marital Bliss", I can see the corner poking out from under that cushion - everyone rush over there. Gosh - I say - I say - no, do listen - a pantechnicon carrying ten thousand 20kg boxes of "Total Happiness" has overturned just around the corner - boxes of the stuff strewn about for the taking... follow me!

No, no, much better that these things should be found on the inside only, through enlightenment and through a certain inability to either get out of the full Lotus position or to slide down from the shoulders of Draped Reclining Woman with any sort of dignity.

Introspection has a lot to be said for it, though I do look a tad ga-ga barefoot in a loincloth and wavin' a formal black umbrella to the vibes of a popular beat combo sitar band brought in from Wolverhampton to help with cleaning the chakras on the terrace.

Enlightenment is one possible reason I suppose for the old brain runnin' slowly, venturin' into new territory, that sort of thing. The frostbite doesn't help of couse. If only the Bagwash would let me meditate indoors.

Other than that it's been a quiet week really. Quite groovy, I suppose, even with a foggy brain. May commission a portrait before the Bagwash flies home, somethin' in oils with me and an elephant under an umbrella, gardens in the background. No idea where I'd pin me medals though, there's so little substance to this native clobber.

Chin chin.

16 comments:

  1. Henry Moore's whatnot, sculptures,reclining hippos and brass monkeys - see no evil, speak no evil dear, and hear none. Shiver quietly my boy.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Fairly sure that I was levitatin' towards the end of the week - couldn't feel any connection with the ground, anyway.

      Om mani padme ho hum please pour the tea more quietly Jeeves.

      At least it stopped the Vicar callin' so often.

      Delete
  2. I've never really known what to "do" with Henry Moore sculptures, but now you've well, enlightened me. They are really like good all-weather garden furniture; perhaps I could have a couple installed on my balcony to replace the collapsing canvas seated chair. Small pieces, mind.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The ones with more holes than substance are best for balcony use - think of the weight. These are known as the works of Henry Lesse ...

      Delete
  3. Has Bagwash not heard of Goose fat? Good to hear you have a Moore; I got him to chisel me a bird bath, but he left holes all over the bloody thing.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I fear that with the local rat population being what it is, meditating in goose fat would be a less than serene experience and more like a biblical vengeance.

      Delete
  4. Surely a loincloth would make an ideal medal display line. As an added bonus, it would add more substance to the garment.

    I'm still holding out for a windfall of Total Happiness In A Box. I've found something similar, but not quite complete, in a bottle...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Daren't let the ruddy batman near the loincloth with the pins of the medals (tipsomaniac, hands like a fly-swat in a wasps nest - have to get him to use a funnel to pour me bedtime cocoa).

      If the universe is indeed infinite and all things and all conditions exist, there must be a universe somewhere where it rains contentment and it literally blows karmic balance in the wind. My goodness me, can you imagine the conversations of the Engish there with weather like that?

      Delete
  5. Coming from your neck of the wolds, I would have thought you should be painting yourself blue and daubing your wattle...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Sad to relate woad has received poor press since Melly McGibson's risible efforts in the film "Bwaveheart" and it has much gone out of fashion hearabouts.

      Plain mud is more me, I lather rmyself with it when I'm stalking people. Does wonders for the skin and masks my scent most effectively indeed.

      Delete
    2. Brave heart used buttock woad as I recall.... Boots no longer stock it,
      I've checked

      Delete
    3. Woad made from buttocks or woad made for buttocks? Is it tested on animals? Hypoallergenic? Vegan? Information, man, we need detail!

      Delete
  6. Methinks Sir Owl has what we Minnesotans call "The Winter Blahs". Tis that golden time in late winter when one falls into bouts of sullen brooding and rumination over "now what the heck was it that I about to do?" This leads to speculation on the transitive nature of desire and of why bother to do anything anyway? At this point, one usually just decides to go make some soup.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thou doth think aright m'Lady; tis the season to be hibernating with a teddybear, a hot water bottle at my tootsies and the butler set to go off at "the first sunny blue-sky day of spring". Alack and alas, tis not to be, even if tis nobler in the mind, tsk tsk - such outrageous fortune, to be awake in February, February, wherefore or even wherefive or six art thou February.

      Oh good gravy, I've lost it again...

      [Basically, I need a swift kick up the jacksie.]

      ;-)

      Delete
  7. I don't know exactly what to say?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Nanny once advised me that, when you don't know exactly what to say, it's probably best to say something inexact such as 'Pi equals 3.142' or 'My bonnie lies over the ocean'.

      Mind you, she was a mad old cow.

      ;-)

      p.s. - oooh, 'ello! Thanks for dropping by and then running off screaming!

      Delete

If you can walk on ricepaper without tearing it, Grasshopper, then you may find that the swan with three buttocks and an allergy to grain may answer your comment with the sigh of a glad heart. If the swan with three buttocks and an allergy to grain answers your comment then this can surely only be because you have, as we say in the jargon of the seventeenth temple-dan, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, got rather small and delicate feet for a chap. Get on wiv it, Grasshopper, before I have one of the monks nut you on the cranial bone.