Day 147 - Sacred Beaver

Sacred beaver 

I made it out of bed just in time to make it to the pond and still be in Brighton by roughly the agreed time. I nearly didn't, and then I just got on my bike and moved my legs until I was there. The water was just so. 6.5 degrees, apparently, though that's been written up on the board for the last few days, so it could be anything between 4 and 8. I saw a new kind of duck. Compact, black, with neat decoration on the head. I decided it was a male, but I have not information to back that up. Except, possibly, the decoration. On the head. 


Thank you, Ruth, for your lovely email and for trying to get me on the phone (though with no luck, of course - no phone). Thank you Jean Hawkins, supreme Pond Lady, for asking me to come to the theatre with you on 24th. I must find out whether it's a matinee or an evening show. Thank you Ruth, again, for calling her on my behalf, as I have no phone. I should have my SIM some time tomorrow or Monday, so I should be able to take calls at that time. I'm hoping to hear about the audition at some point early next week, and maybe I can 

Thank you, J, for lovely company in sunny Brighton, for a long wander to and fro, for FitFlop chitchat, for your wisdom, your hospitality, your Quorn pasta, your popcorn and time with you and your lovely family. A funny husband (in a good way) and two boys with eyelashes like curtains, with teeth and funny laughs. I see how much work it is to be a good parent, especially to be the primary carer; how much love and patience and massive resourcefulness. You give all that. 


We watched a film. Men Who Stare At Goats. It was... it was quite good. Nice to see George Clooney with long hair and a moustache. Some of the things they believed reminded me of the yoga school, or what I think I understand of it. Levitation. Causing others to hallucinate. Things you have to do for 49 days without fail or it's all over and you have to start again. Cosmic powers. And that women pissing in each other's mouths is a spiritual act. Tara Yoga Centre, by the way. MISA. NATHA. Gregorian Bivolaru. Check them out. There's some reading to be done on that lot. Once you start to look, they are not shy of publicising their sex films. I saw the 'Making Off' (sic) film of one of them. The actors from the yoga school said it was a spiritual experience, and that the crew was like a family. The professional porn actors weren't interviewed, so I'm not sure how, in their opinion, that particular shoot differed from others. I'm not judging them because they're doing porn. It's a business. And so is yoga. I'm just not that keen when they're mixed, when 'femininity' is taught and seems to involve short, lacy, see-through dresses, lap-dancing and strip-tease as a spiritual practice. I am so sad about the yoga, and I am missing the sense of community there massively. I'd have been a prime target, I think. A seeker. Someone looking for something that they can offer - community, belonging, a spiritual path. But not at all costs, and not led by an angry, insecure-sounding little man with a penchant for golden showers. Call me old-fashioned, go on. I just... you know... I have reservations.


I saw one of the people from the school flyering big time outside Angel tube. I know they do it at Old Street too. In my mind-fantasies, when that happened, I went up to them and railed, shouted that they were a cult, stopped people taking flyers. What did I really do? I went up to him and put my hand on his arm, looked at him and felt a wave of sadness. He said 'You look... tired' and I mumbled something about having to go. I had so much to say and so much not to. This is happening in other areas of my life too. Oh, there's a lesson there. How to communicate difficult things. Disappointment in people or organisations. How to ask for what you want, or ask for information with a genuine willingness to hear what the answer is? Is it worth doing? I suppose there's really only one way to find out.

Normal beaver

Thank you for good friends that I've been neglecting, or seeing through panes of perspex. Thank you for the provision of this computer, and the knowledge that, though I didn't ask, I would want to blog. Thank you for the 'gamble' of not lugging mine along paying off I'd already decided that I would (shock!) blog by hand and write it up the next day. I love the routine of turning up here every night to blog, but it should not become a chore. It's not. It's the time in the day when I feel the most real. So I keep the routine, for my own good and pleasure. If I can't post, or even write, then I will find another way to do the ritual. But here I am, ritualling away like a sacred beaver. Thank you.