Impermanence

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

6: impermanence 

JRR Tolkien wrote…

The Road goes ever on and on,

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

One precious reality is, that there are endings as well as beginnings. It was a six week course. It has been six weeks. It has ended. Of course the yearning for knowledge, as insatiable as it is, remains, but that section of my reality has drawn to a close.

I am so very grateful to the staff and the Colchester Buddhist Centre ( for existing) and for that gentle introduction to Buddhism ☸ and to Meditation (Mindfulness and Loving Kindness). I understand that the new year will bring a secondary course  which I shall look forward to.

Life itself is not permanent. Forms and existence comes and goes, are in constant change and have no definitive reality. There will be uncomfortable times.

This is the mystery of the quotient, quotient

Upon us all, upon us all, a little rain must fall

(sang Led Zepplin's Robert Plant)

We are born, we live, we die and in-between times we experience.

So, what did I learn? I learned that as much as I know, I know little. I learned to become a student again, to listen and to try a new way especially with my approach to meditation 🧘‍♀️.

I am fortunate that, although the course has finished, a Saturday meeting continues to be welcoming to newbies and the practised too, so I can continue to learn. So, next Saturday I'll accept a fresh challenge, and attend with the adults.

Oooo what a surprise

 

A burly, black uniformed, man knocked insistently on my room door. Surprised by the knocking and by the knocker, and then by the squad of police officers (in various shapes and sizes) staggered along the staircase, I was dumbstruck.

I had heard the previous knocks (on adjacent doors) which, living where I am, seems to be De rigueur, but thought no more of it.

The well-built (and entirely professional) police officer enquired of my neighbour, and of the distinct whiff of canabaloids lingering on the landing between us. I laughed it off speaking of my incense. He was distinctly unamused. The establishment gentleman not so gentlemanly proceeded to pound on my neighbour's door, calling my neighbour's name while doing so. Downstairs, the open front door issued in whiffs of winter.

I retreated back into the comparative not quite so cool of my room.

More knocking More questions. More of my non-committal verbal fencing.

"We've got the place surrounded" launched through my open window, and straight out of a TV cop show. More threats were issued. I wonder, does officers on the stairs and in the small backyard consist of 'surrounding'.

More knocking, this time by neighbour's mother making enquiries. I would have offered her to take a seat, but I only have one and I wanted neither of us to be seated on my bed. That seemed a little too friendly considering the circumstances.

Eventually, the questioning officer gained entry to my neighbour's room and, with colleagues and a distinctly unamused female officer, proceeded to search my neighbour's room.

Later, I was told (by another tenant) that a waft of officers had attacked him, in a case of mistaken identity.

My neighbour was arrested. For what I have no idea. He is 18. We have all made mistakes. Me a copious amount. I wish him and his concerned mother well.

After all the excitement I badly needed a real cup of coffee. I walked here, to Costa Coffee, in the town centre and, being soothed by a Flat White, began writing

A meditation on meditation

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

5: A meditation on meditation

Once more it is early Sunday morning. Yesterday, again, I had walked the one mile to class, observing the day as I went. The autumnal sun shone, taking the chill away and blessed the morning with blue skies, just as the sunny greetings from the Centre's Saturday regulars brought a warmth to my heart.

There was no ethical or historical Buddhist talk yesterday for we learners. Instead, that class, the fifth of six classes at the Colchester Buddhist Centre, involved a prolonged meditation session, or should I say sessions as the time was divided into shorter meditation 'bites', making the practice easier to engage with.

Apart from the ethical aspects of Buddhism, living better in the world and with others, meditation, as a regular practice is at the core of Buddhism. Hence images of the Buddha in a seated meditation pose.

A slight meditation on meditation.

The Oxford English Dictionary describes two types of 'Meditation'...

1. the act of giving your attention to only one thing, either as a religious activity or as a way of becoming calm and relaxed:

2. serious thought or study, or the product of this activity.

In English, the word 'meditation' originally meant to ponder or to concentrate, coming from the Latin ‘meditatum’. Hence René Descartes' famous work was translated into English, from the French 'Méditations Métaphysiques' into 'Meditations on First Philosophy', or philosophical pondering.

There are thoughts that the idea of 'meditation' has existed long before the civilisation of man, and that hunter-gatherers and tribal shamans engaged in something similar.

In the East, the concept of 'meditation' has existed for thousands of years, before Hinduism and hence before Buddhism too and has come to include concepts such as 'mindfulness', 'contemplation' 'communion' 'chanting', the spreading of 'Metta' (or Loving Kindness) and 'trance'. In India’s oldest written records (from around 1500 BC), there is the practice of mind training through ‘Dhyāna’ or ‘Jhāna’. In China the idea of mediation can be traced back to six centuries BC to the ‘Daoist’ ancient Chinese philosophers such as Lao zi. 

At the Centre, we learned just how important posture is to meditation, especially when engaging in longer meditations. To be comfortable is very important so that the mind doesn't have to worry about bodily aches and pains. We engaged in a number of short 'guided' meditations (over the two and a half hours of the class), and emerged more enthused than ever. To become proficient in meditation takes years of practice but this, for me, is a good start.

Long dark night....

“In the long dark night of the soul, it is always three in the morning.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The nights are getting longer, and are dark. My soul rests battered and bruised from last year's break up which, incidentally, I am still recovering from, and it's British Mid-october, autumnal cold, 6.30 in the morning and still dark. 

The permanent warmth of the Far East is far behind with its exotic and erotic natures as I await the British sun which, this year, appears seldomly as if Covidly self distancing or yet another victim of Brexit.

It's too chilly to emerge from my duvet into the cold room with windows streaming with condensation, yet I am too restless not to. I've been awake since 4.30, hence I've had five and a half hours sleep, which is okay, not ideal, but okay.

Land gulls cry outside and the area begins to awaken. I imagine being in Thomas's Llareggub which lies under Milk Wood with Richard Burton's lyrical voice booming out about Captain Tom Cat and Myfanwy Price. But I don't know Colchester intimately enough to make the comparison.

Now 07.05 I am in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness. Some working men in the building stir, preparing for their day's toil on roofs or driving lorries. If I had the requisite items I would be thinking of breakfast preparation, but in yesterday's haste to buy lunch and dinner I forgot about today's breakfast, and there is no neighbourhood eatery to nip down to (the nearest being a mile away). Besides, it's still ruddy cold outside this bed. That's the dilemma, too cold to get out but nobody to keep me in. Ah such is the chaste life!

Help: I am stuck inside an Edward Hopper painting.

Azure Skies

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

4: Azure Skies

Saturdays I literally walk the path to class. It's a multifold journey. Yesterday, at nine thirty in the morning  on that October day in the East Anglian town of Colchester, the sky was azure and the day warm.There was no hint of rain, and I could walk with my Superdry jacket open for once. 

These days I make a conscious effort to be in the 'now', to try to notice as much as possible about the world around me as I walk out. The camera on my hand phone is an excuse to do that. I leave early for class on purpose, so that I don't have to hurry. I gives me time for little detours, taking photographs, talking to cats and buying a bottle of water. I can also arrive at the Centre early, talk to people, skim through books I might want to buy before class starts. 

The Saturday class is very much a beginner's class, which is exactly what I wanted. Before, I had only touched upon Buddhism through my unstructured reading, and my brief attendance at the 'Sangha' meetings in Malaysia. But they didn't approach Buddhism in a structured way, rather ad hoc and to the whim and will of the group leader. So it is a sheer joy to learn in a more methodical way, which constantly relates back to the day-to-day practical nature of Buddhism. 

Yesterday was the 'Five Precepts', and they are to.... 

• Refrain from taking life. Not killing any living being. ... 

• Refrain from taking what is not given. Not stealing from anyone. 

• Refrain from the misuse of the senses. Not having too much sensual pleasure. ... 

• Refrain from wrong speech. Not to lie. 

• Refrain from intoxicants that cloud the mind. 

A 'Precept', according to one dictionary, is "

a general rule intended to regulate behaviour or thought." The 'Five Precepts' in Buddhism though are not necessarily rules but, perhaps, suggestions, or guiding principles to live by. Basically they kind of make sense, more especially in the world we live in now, in the 21st century. These 'Precepts' might also be called attainments, or targets, aims to achieve for a more aware, more harmonious or enlightened life. Buddha was, after all, 'The Enlightened One'. Not as though we will all achieve enlightenment, but we can 'smell the roses' take time to 'stand and stare' or (as dear Ram Dass might say) to 'Be Here Now'. 

So, on yesterday's walk along the path to class, I did take time out to photograph the toadstools, the dew still on the grass and on fallen leaves, as well as notice the trees turning russet against that azure sky. In a sense it was a walking meditation, while in class we, once more, familiarised ourselves with the Metta Bhavana  (or the cultivation of Loving Kindness) to all.

Metta Bhavana

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

3:

Metta Bhavana

It was Saturday, I had my bottle of water in hand, and it was back to the bus stop. The Colchester Buddhist Centre was momentarily locked. Mind you I was early, again, but brrr I could really feel autumn, but it felt like winter to this misplaced person.

Ah where was the warm of beloved Buddha land? Still, time to reflect.

On the way I said good morning to two contemplating felines, pretty in their cat-like ways. They smiled too, perhaps thinking I was Alice.

I looked to the sky and remembered George Harrison's "it isn't always going to be this grey", and he lived in England too. As time and the day had progressed Jimmie was singing “still rain, still raining” because it was.

So I sit and muse, Earl Grey made and Peruvian chocolate awaiting, some five hours later thinking Jimmie (not George) was right.

Today’s interesting interaction revealed my current obsession with George Harrison. Never mind that he and I shared a birthday, but recently I have been drawn back to those few esoteric numbers by The Beatles (‘Within You and Without You’, ‘Inner Light’ , ‘Love You To’, Tomorrow Never Knows’ etc) and mostly featuring George, and those spiritually moving songs George made after the 1970 split, such as ‘All Things Must Pass’, 'My Sweet Lord' et al.

In class we were being briefly introduced to the Buddhist precepts. Looking towards the Eightfold Path via the attributes our ‘heroes’ or ‘heroines’ might personify, which brought me back to the spirituality, good humoredness and generosity of George Harrison (think ‘Concert from Bangladesh’ and his involvement with London’s Hare Krishna movement). It turns out that, as reasonable mature people, perhaps we should be considering the implications of these anyway, such as generosity, kindliness, truthfulness and all those good things that we know in our heart of hearts we should be considering as modalities of living with other people (and beings too).

Today’s meditation changed from the ‘Mindfulness’ that we had been concentrating on, to ‘Loving Kindness’ or the ‘Metta Bhavana’ (which could also be seen as “Metta” meaning compassion, and “Bhavana” meaning cultivating).

The ‘course’ is already half done and I am already considering signing on for more……Watch this space.

Mind the Gap

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

2:

Mind the Gap

In 1969, Lou Reed of The Velvet Underground (in the song ‘Some kind of love’) sang “Between thought and expression lies a lifetime”, which brings to mind not only the Viennese  psychiatrist Viktor Frankl and his Logotherapy and the ‘space’ between stimulus and response, but is also reminiscent of the Buddhist notion of a ‘gap’ on the ‘Wheel of Life’, or the very practical aspects of the Karmic domino effect of our actions in life, and maybe beyond, depending upon your notion of rebirth..

The class was as fascinating as ever.

I continue to be enthused about the paired down, no nonsense, demystified approach to Buddhism. If you might consider Buddhism to be a stripped down version of the religious collective known as Hinduism, then Western Buddhism is Buddhism Lite, devoid of the mysticism, just as Protestantism is a more pragmatic version of Catholicism within the Christian faith.

This week, before meditation we, the humble travellers not on a ribald Chaucerian pilgrimage but on our own separate journeying into Buddhist practices, were introduced to the ‘Tibetan Wheel of Life’, or the map of Samsara which, at first glance, seems to be an Asian visual rendering of Dante's Nine Circles of Hell.

The bad news is that suffering (Dukkha) exists. The worse news is that we will all suffer. But the good news is that we can do something about it.

Enter, not the dragon but the karmic gap, and back to Viktor Frankl and his ‘space’ between stimulus and response. Frankl, like Herman Hesse and Carl Jung, journeyed to the East and took back to the West notions found there, including borrowings from Hinduism, Buddhism and Taoism, so is it no wonder that there may be similarities between a Logoistic/psychodynamic and Buddhist approach to the action and re-action we all seem to suffer from.

Please mind the gap. This is heard at some of the stations on the British ‘Tube’ (underground rail system). That gap being a physical manifestation of the more metaphysical ‘gap’ in the action and the seemingly autonomous reactive response we suffer in life. The secret is not to mind, but to be mindful of that gap and that infinitesimal ‘augenblik’ (moment) between action and reaction.

Sangha

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

1: Sangha

It’s a Saturday in September, and it’s my first day at the Colchester Buddhist Centre. A little while ago I signed up for a short (6 Saturday) course on Buddhism and Meditation there. I have many reasons to do so, not least to get me out of my rented double room and to interact with real people (as opposed to those wraiths on Youtube or Zoom).

The time has come, or so I reckon, to enquire beyond reading Ram Dass and Alan Watts, and go back to basics, to actively involve myself with Western Buddhist teaching and understand a little more about its practice. Some while ago (in Selangor, Malaysia), I had attended monthly meetings with a circle of Chinese Malaysians seeking to practise Buddhism. It was helpful, but I couldn’t help thinking that the meetings echoed those of Christian practise, replete with singing to guitar or piano accompaniment which seemed very much like hymns, not to mention the bowing before an idol of Buddha which again felt like the genuflection to the crucified Catholic Christ. That wasn’t for me, but today is different.

I’ve just walked a mile to the Centre, and arrived early. Early enough to sit at a bus stop outside the Centre gathering my thoughts. It’s due to be the first time that I’m interacting in a group setting since June this year, when my Cambodian teaching days ended. It's now September, and I confess to a little anxiety about interacting in a group. Although I’ve paid for the course I could, of course, simply not turn up. But then that would defeat one of my objectives, and that is to re-integrate myself back into local society after a 17 year absence. I gird my loins and go, my curiosity finally outweighing my reticence. 

I stand outside that renovated building looking in and letting others in before me. It’s a gentlemanly, yet also tentative, act. Inside, there are lots of welcoming smiles, but not those unsettling “oh my god this is a cult, get me outta here” type smiles, but actually welcoming “I’m so glad that you could make it” smiles instead. The type of smiles which succeed in making you, or at least me, feel welcome.

The building, which had served as a warehouse in Portland Road, had been bought from Colchester Borough Council and renovated to suit its current purpose. The moment that I walk in I’m made to feel at ease, comfortable, and welcomed both by the people (ordained members of the Triratna Buddhist Order and Sangha) and (strangely enough) by the building. There is a very therapeutic feel to the whole environment.

Two classes have gathered in that entry hall. There are rows of chairs and sofas which quickly fill with newbies and old hands as ten thirty approaches. I sit near the back simply because that is where I am and, I guess, to feel less self-conscious. The Centre’s ‘staff’ (experienced Buddhists) generally wear a white ribbon around their necks and a name badge to be recognised although, I learn, some don’t. It’s quite a relaxed atmosphere here.

The usual welcome chit chat explains the Centre, introduces the ‘staff’ and gives a general introduction as to why we are there, and what we will do. After cups of tea, for we are mostly British here, and tea is obligatory, followed by a quick Q & A then the group divides and our class remains as the Saturday meditation group disappears up the blonde wooden staircase. Those of us who remain are the newcomers and attendant ‘Staff’. There is the briefest explanation of Buddhism, as well as a short history of Buddhism in Colchester, then we’re led upstairs to the main altar room, bypassing the kitchen on the way. The more I see of the building the more I like it. The copious amounts of wood aid in the relaxing feel, entirely conducive to the building’s purpose. There is no weight, no heaviness and it’s as if the whole decor was designed with counselling and care in mind. There is no heaviness of religion, although the Buddha is present and represented by small practically unobtrusive (and entirely tasteful) figures and figurines. 

We, the new course attendees (of all shapes, sizes and with varying abilities) are invited to sit before a stately statue (Rupa) of Buddha, in the main altar room. I opt for a chair. Others, who evidently are more agile, sit on cushions on the floor. Sadly my mistreated old body is no longer supple enough for that. After being asked if we have any objection to incense being burnt, we are led through a forty minute session of meditation after a mindful ‘body scan’(relaxation session). Honestly, it’s the longest that I’ve been able to meditate so far.

We decamp, don shoes, chat and leave with promises of our return the following week. I can honestly say that I am looking forward to going back there.

Mr Bradley's Day Out

The early morning (07.07) train carried me leisurely from ‘Colchester Town’ to ‘Colchester Railway station’, once there another, no less friendly, ‘Great Eastern’ locomotive melodically beat sleepers towards a freshly awakened Liverpool Street, and London Town.

It was an unhurried day, full of sky and sunshine, with a dash or two of pre-autumn leaves sashaying to earth. London quietly hummed along and people peopled everywhere to the rhythm of their own heartbeats.

My tummy growled its morning greeting, asking when the promised breakfast might arrive. I answered soon, and took the Hammersmith & City tube to Aldgate East. I had a plan, you see. A plan formulated ages ago, when eating bagels in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I had wished that I could partake of the smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels which I'd remembered from my favourite bagel joint, during my nine years of weekends visiting London’s East End.

I walked.

I walked through from Aldgate East, eventually, to a Brick Lane which was no longer Monica Ali’s. It was Monday, and the party was over. Streets and pavements were graced with the party’s remnants. I sidled into a Bengali store, with curious looks from the locals, and sought out species unattainable in Colchester. I managed to get dried, not fresh, curry leaves and a refill for the ‘Panch Puren’ an erstwhile friend had given, but was running out, and black mustard seeds too.

The morning was bright and I was in a good mood, and so walked on, singing all sorts of Summer’s day songs in my head and, before I knew it, there I was, at ‘Beigel Bake’, and my breakfast awaited.

True to my vision, I ordered a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel which, when it appeared, was plumper than any of those pretend bagels that I had seen in the several years interval between visits. My accompanying paper cup of tea almost raneth over and was pleasant, but I'd expected a stained white ceramic mug. Those days have gone.

I stood, as so many times before, and slowly savoured the Brick Lane bagel experience, simultaneously looking longingly at the vast array of freshly produced pastries, and imagining just how many I could eat before becoming sick. I calculated, probably one. 

I exited Brick Lane with a sigh and a backward glance at salt beef sandwiches, and found myself in Bethnal Green Road. Before me a number 8 double decker bus drifted by. ‘Now that’s a good idea' I thought and walked down the road a little, to the Bus Stop. 

I hadn’t long to wait before another number 8 bus appeared. I proffered my ‘Oyster Card’, went upstairs, and relaxed as the London Transport bus trundled its way, not unpleasantly, to Tottenham Court Road, and London’s West End. I had thoughts of Sandi Toxvig and her not dissimilar journeying in London, while Flanders and Swan's "Big six-wheeler, scarlet-painted, London Transport, diesel-engined, ninety-seven–horse-power omnibus" (from their 'A Transport of Delight',1957 song), entertained my mind.

The road which, when not proffering sexual delights, had been filled with bookshops selling remaindered books, looked empty. I emerged opposite the Palace Theatre and 'Harry Potter', in ginormous letters. Not being much of a fan I didn't linger, but instead walked down towards the National Portrait Gallery and followed a pride of inert and quite colourful lions, to the National Art Gallery at Trafalgar Square where I was greeted by the sculpture of a giant dollop of whipped cream, with a cherry on top. There was a fly and a drone as well.

Crossing the road, I stood for a moment as someone was opening the doors to Tourism Malaysia.The irony did not escape me.

Still fuelled by my bagel and tea, I wandered down to Whitehall and Parliament then along Victoria Embankment, where I sat and mused a little, watching all sorts of river craft float along the Thames. If I'd had company I might have suggested a river tour. It's been ages since I did that. But I didn't fancy it alone.

Ambling along I found the amazing greenery of The Victoria Embankment Gardens, and its imposing statuary. I didn't stop, except to take photographs like the tourist I was, but headed to Charing Cross and scooted up towards Covent Garden. By this time I was looking for lunch and had but one stop in mind, a Singaporean style restaurant I’d heard of.

The said Singaporean eatery wasn’t in Covent Garden, as proclaimed, but in New Row. The chicken curry taste was pretty authentic, but ultimately spoiled by being microwaved, and previously frozen. I could tell this because potatoes really don't fare well after being frozen. The cendol (iced sweet dessert) was okay but, like many places in Malaysia, it was mostly ice and the green noodles were too soft. But overall it was what I was looking for, and I found it. Next time I’d probably seek somewhere else.

The surprise of the day came just a few doors down from that eatery. I sauntered down that ‘row’, and was passing some other eateries when a be-hatted congenial Afro-Caribbean man smiled at me. He sat, strangely enough, right next to a hattery. I saw the hats and, as if beguiled, drifted in. The be-hatted gentleman followed me in. As we were talking hats another, younger, slimmer gentleman appeared. I had to look twice. This new man wore his blonde hair in the old mod style of Rod Stewart and had a very similar look about him (Tank Top), all except for ‘The Illustrated Man’ tattoos. Together they could have been characters from some London dystopian Neil Gaiman novel. They were friendly. I bought a black fedora (hat), and was told that ‘black’ was not the usual colour for hats. I didn’t ask why, but I should have.

Going up to China Town, which is (according to Wikipedia) is Gerrard Street, the bottom half of Wardour Street, Rupert Street and Rupert Court, a section of Shaftesbury Avenue and Lisle Street, Macclesfield Street and Newport Place, Newport Court and Little Newport Street, I was searching for one particular Malaysian curry powder (Baba’s), but couldn’t find it. Instead I bought ‘Char Siew Buns’ (baked buns containing Chinese roast pork in sauce) to take home for dinner.

I wandered up to Tottenham Court Road, and caught a number 8 bus (again) back to Liverpool Street Station, then my (16.17) train to Colchester, and finally Colchester Town station and walked back to my lodgings, about half a mile. It was a great, but tiring, day. I admit, part of me wants to live nearer to London, as I did back in the late 1960s (Westbourne Grove), another loves the countryside. I guess that Colchester is a compromise with London an hour away by train.

The Path

It is an interesting path. 

I lay awake in this new bed, in the rented English room. I was awake at 4am this morning. Now, at 5.16am, light seeps through the thin window blinds, pink on one side from the street lamp and a pale silver through the two windows which overlook the small back yard.

I took Brenda Shoshanna's advice, and lay in a quiet meditation as the day dawned. 

Last night I came across her podcasts revealing her thoughts and teachings about Zen Buddhism, which seems to incorporate Daoist and Buddhist thought. 

I had arrived there quite naturally, stepping from a Chinese Buddhist group in Malaysia and learning about practical, everyday, Buddhist practice, to the multifaceted multicultural podcasts and YouTube wisdoms shared by the late Ram Dass. 

Life had stripped away many of my possessions, and attachments, and I found myself not needing and not wanting to be surrounded by things anymore. Hence the frugality of my current room. I hadn't been looking for,  but nevertheless found, some wisdom in the simpleness of Zen Buddhist practice.

I am not naturally a joiner. I do not crave to be a gang or group member, but will sit outside and observe and take upon myself those ideas and practices which are aligned to my path such as living a simple, uncluttered life and adjusting my ego and its materialistic wants.

I am still adjusting from being made single, to being single, from lonely to being alone and resigned to that. My spiritual journey has grown from my physical journey and the gradual acceptance of change. I have far to go, but have taken this moment for reflection.

Processing Phnom Penh

I sat in that long distance taxi, be-masked at my journey' s beginning, alternatively a little anxious and a little excited.

I had left behind the keys to my former house, in Kuala Lumpur, in that small room at the children's charity, in Siem Reap. I also left behind my young Khmer friends and the beautiful hugs from twin sisters Sorphany and Sorphanin. I had clambered into that Toyota Highlander feeling sad, knowing that I couldn't stay any longer and that I had to start a new life, somewhere.

In the mild heat of the Cambodian morning I was driven by Vuthy, through Siem Reap city,  past early morning markets, sellers of bottled petroleum, Khmer women in pyjamas, on bicycles, and men, their sarongs wrapped and tied around them, performing their ablutions on the pavement.

As we travelled, in roadside pools gracious pink lotus flowers blossomed, while advertising signs sprouted up and towered over us displaying Gansberg German Premium beer, Boostrong energy drink, Anchor and other beers, as the driver and I passed and the sun glowed shocking orange and brightening. 

We slowed through market laden small towns, greeted by stacks of locally woven baskets, piles of green coconuts and swathes of the fresh green leaves Khmer people love to eat. 

Outside those small towns, on that crazy ride to get a Covid-19 Pre-Departure Test (PDT) at the National Institute of Public Health Government building, thin white cows with short horns grazed; strange straw mushroom shaped haystacks with wooden centre posts seemed to grow as we passed. Then, all of a sudden, Vuthy pulled the car over to the side of the road, and onto the red earth verge. He exited the car and proceeded to urinate in the ditch. A call of nature, nurtured. 

We moved on by small brick kilns fronted by piles of orderly red bricks, saffron clad monks with yellow sun-masking umbrellas and white Covid face masks, emaciated horses with hair tied in small plumes pulling carts of long wooden planks, and curious tractor-lorries pulling their loads of coal black charcoal.

After five hours of alternate green fields and small towns we were suddenly there, driving across a bridge of the Tonle Sap river, Phnom Penh, caught up in a traffic jam. The first that we'd encountered all morning. Vuthy pulled the car up, onto the curb, outside the Government health building. He spoke with a young man who beckoned me to follow. Follow I did, through gaps between parked cars towards a side street. He then pointed, and I went where he pointed. There were signs, in English,TESTING THIS WAY, followed by red arrows painted on a pathway leading into the Government space, and around and in between buildings.

Eventually, after emulating Dorothy and following the yellow brick road there was a door. I went inside. There were rows upon rows of empty plastic chairs. I mooched towards the counter and was immediately shooed away. I had inadvertently gone in through the out door. A man motioned for me to go out the way I had come in, and go around the building. Yes, yet another building.

I went round. There were no more arrows but, instead, men draped in personal protection gear at an outside desk. I proffered my papers. One (fully personally protected) man pointed to a rope system, like those you see at the airport while waiting to check in. The path twisted hither and thither and was empty, nada, no human traffic, zero. Being the dutiful alien I traverse the path keeping my distance from the nonexistent fellow travellers. Around and around I went in that imaginary queue.

Worthy of Brian Rix, I eventually walked back into the building I had just exited, but by a different door. Then the fun began. Online, and in my haste, (and on my hand phone which tends to be too small for both my eyesight and my plump fingers), I had put my name as it is on my debit card, and not as it is in my passport (ie in full and not initials). This oversight caused a small amount of consternation as I attempted to explain to three different Cambodian Government health officials, why I had done so. Stupidity and blatant disregard for officialdom being the answers which sprang immediately to my mind. The scene before me was like watching chickens when a fox enters their coop.

Finally, and after much explaining, I was asked to pay US$130 and had another piece of paper added to my growing stack. I was requested to go back three stages and wait. By then there had developed a massive crowd of two (other victims). I waited in my Kafka dystopian nightmare until I was practically dragged into the presence of two women who were dressed in full surgical attire, replete with plastic shielded faces. I felt a little underdressed with my pathetic, flimsy, blue paper mask.

A swab was taken in my mouth, then I was told, in good but obviously accented English, to shut my mouth. No offence was given and none taken. A thinner swab (thank God for small mercies) was however rammed into my right nostril. It hurt, and I was surprised that there was no blood. I waited. Then I waited, and after waiting was eventually told to go. I asked if I had to return the next day. I’d done my reading, you see, and understood the procedure. In a round about fashion this date was confirmed. I was to return for my Covid 19 test results the next day, at 5pm.

Lunch beckoned. It was my first time at the New Season Indian Restaurant, with its commanding river vista.  I had no expectations, good or bad. I asked and was told that yes they do have Dosa, Masala Dosa. When it came the Dosa was folded neatly into a triangle, and really did look appetising, as did the chutneys too. But looks can be deceiving, howsomever this wasn't. The Dosa (and it's chutneys) were all that I could have hoped for, bringing back happy memories of my travels in India. And the lassi was good, so good that I drank 3 glasses. That's something I've never done before. I just have to go back…

Like various Asian cities, Phnom Penh was quite the enigma. There were main roads with copious high value cars sharing space with low rent tuk tuks which vie with the Indian made Bajaj and (Honda made) Scoopy motor scooters. Adverts for the rich, or the wannabe rich, peered down, while in back streets Khmer life continued as it has done for millennia. Women scooped rice from sacks to sell, others had set out their vegetable or fruit stalls selling dragon fruit, or durian. Still others sold fresh pork and the Khmer version of Chinese Lap Cheong sausages, by the side of the road.

While waiting to fly back to another life I was finally on holiday and enjoying Dosa, Dim Sum and Udon noodles in that conflicted city.

4pm came and went. Vuthy was not  evident.

In Cambodia you frequently have to add an extra half, or even a whole, hour to your expected time frame. However, trying to be positive, no amount of waiting is actually wasted. As I sat waiting for my perennially late driver, three hornbills flew past the hotel. I had no idea that hornbills even existed in Cambodia, let alone in a city like Phnom Penh. I'm British and male, I noticed many other kinds of 'birds' here, but never expected hornbills.

Vuthy eventually arrived and I returned to that mildly chaotic testing centre. I followed the arrows again, but this time there was a multitude of humanity not obeying the two metre rule of pandemic safety.

There was jostling and pushing with no evident queue or system. I was pushed so that I inadvertently arrived at the front and, simultaneously, with hopeful others thrust my receipt forward. A fully covered individual looking like someone out of the Quatermass Experiment took my piece of paper, folded it and marked it with the number 2. It is only then that I saw the writing on the wall, literally. Numbers 1 to 3 were scrawled on the wall. I had number 2 on my receipt, and stood before it, or as much as I was able to. 

Again my outstretched arm gained attention and I received an official looking A4 paper proclaiming me to be Covid 19 free (for now anyway). Whoopee, I was free to fly back to Blighty and spend ten days sequestered in one room. Ah what fun.

Of course, I really didn't need to worry about my results, for reason alone dictates that had I been proved positive in the test, there would have been a squad of police and medical professionals at my door long before I had even thought of going out that day.

Before my stress levels were allowed to drop, there was Immigration to endure. It is at that point when things could have gone terribly, terribly, wrong. Would I be dragged off to an overstayers prision ready for eventual deportation, or simply allowed to pass, as I was leaving anyway. Do bear in mind that I had overstayed for thirteen months after all.  Phew! It was the latter.

But, before that, there were five hours at the airport to consider.

Phnom Penh airport is not Siem Reap airport, where all kinds of facilities await the eager traveller inside. No, Phnom Penh airport has facilities, though less, outside too, although only one was open, selling filled croissants. In these Covid days Phnom Penh airport 'Departures' was closed until 3pm. Five hours of aicon-less air was already too much, only 1 hour in and business was as abnormal in Phnom Penh airport, and I could actually count the number of people there.

On reflection, that morning was interesting. I had taken an early breakfast at 'The Rising Sun English Restaurant", and ordered a 'Half English Breakfast', though I'm not terribly sure if hash browns count as being English. The owner was half Chinese and half Khmer (she said when I asked) but not as though that mattered to the construction of breakfast.. 

The food was good, and after its consumption and a small chat with the establishment's owner, I wandered along the riverside watching earnest looking men release cages full of small birds back into the wild, which is a custom of gaining Buddhist merit (called Fang Sheng). Those actions were accompanied by a small Khmer orchestra near a Buddhist shrine. I need to research why...

There was an awful lot of admin to do before the flight. Specifically arranging Covid tests after my arrival in the UK and the signing in to the UK Government Passenger Locator Form. My poor eyesight and pudgy fingers found those tasks Herculean. Ho hum. However, I persisted (with a lot of venting and ejaculating words I've not used for a very long time). It must have been the effect of returning to the UK and to my roots. But I got through it, well sort of.

Waiting for Summer

In

West Mersea 

Park 

stands an oak

two mushrooms 

Full of bravado

Cling 

A gazebo 

empty

playground

devoid of children 

The sun 

Has taken a respite

Clouds of grey

Slip past

I am

Alone

Here

In my

Autumn

Waiting 

For 

Summer.

On Not Rushing

ON NOT RUSHING 

There's a great pleasure to be had by not rushing, instead, taking each and every moment that comes.

I move foward, cautiously. No hurry. Hurrying days are past. Each moment is delicious. I want to savour every morsel of my time, be in the moment, not letting the seconds slip past unnoticed.

Later, I want to remember that a solitary bird sang it's morning welcome, that the sky was unwelcoming gray and the room chilled despite this being an English Summer's day.

Soon I shall break the night's fast with very British cornflakes, despite the fact that they are American, and have a very English cup of tea, which is really not English at all.

I do not rush, but saunter, my way to the bus stop and wait. The bus takes me, unhurriedly, to its station. From which I walk at a reasonable pace to the train station, and there wait to board the train to the intermediary station, and board a second train, to the city.

There are, and will be, a thousand and one things of which I shall not be aware. My consciousness is limited. My mind starved and only permitted imagination piqued by my senses. There are things I truely cannot know like, for instance, the heart of another, save for those things existing within in my miniscule world. My personal world.

After exiting the train I sedatly saunter to the below ground rail, patiently wait for a presenting carriage, change carriages and, when appropriate, alight at my destination. On that solitary journey I quell any and all expectations. My breath not uneasy. Journeying, I settle my concerns,  breathe easily and present myself rested.

When there my heart does not flutter, nor my pulse race. I remain calm, unhurried, suited for the moment. In the moment, being authentically there, I have no concerns for past or present. 

However, the sight of her momentarily disturbs my equilibrium. I sense a brief unease, a gladdening, and then it is gone. She is a poem. I struggle with my feelings. Om Mani Padme Hum. Breathe. Remember to breathe.

The day disappears. We are together and the world continues without us. I know nothing of the sun, the breeze, blooming flowers, sky transversing avifauna. All I see is her. All I hear is her. I am enraptured. Mind taken.  A golum. Now there is no rush, for we are the moment.

Eating, walking, are in the dream that we share. Even parting, travelling, all are performed automatically. The next morning I awake and realise that I am solitary once again. But the memory sustains. At times I am preoccupied. Wishes, hopes, dreams willing me to invest in speculation. I do not rush into that folly, but relax, smile and praise whichever celestial benign being for their momentary kindness, and I do not rush.

Mersea Evening

Saturday evening
Scent of sea
Sound of gulls
Aged blue fibreglass dingy (with see me yellow Plastic runwhales)
Still tethered to the concrete Jetty
Leans into damp sand with pebbles
Bladderwort drying
Oyster shell halves half buried
A child's
Small
Plastic spade
Forgotten
In the rush for home

Fush and Chups

As a family, back in the 1950s  we were poor, I think it's called under privileged now. If we, as a family, went out for a meal, it would inevitably be Fish and Chips, the cheapest take away or eat in.

Growing I began to loathe fish and chips. I don't think that I was associating that with being poor, but just bored of the repetition. So what changed? Asia did.

Fish and Chips in Malaysia was okay, a bit weird sometimes, but bearable. In Siem Reap, Cambodia, however, the whole notion of fish and chips slipped up a notch or three. The most exceptional was Fush & Chups at Clayton Venis 's Jungle Burger.

While Cod was an unknown quantity in Cambodia, the lack of it was more than made up for by the river fish used, coated in beer batter. Okay, put simply, it was delicious, and none of those frozen chips either, or mushy peas from a tin.

It was eating Cambodian fish and chips which lead me back to eating that dish in West Mersea yesterday (£10 or $US14, RM 50). It was neither as bad as the British fish and chips that I remember, but certainly not as good as my New Zealand mate's in Siem Reap.

Colchester- A Slight Return

These last few days have been the longest that I've ever spent on Mersea Island (Colchester Borough). I've sketched here, in the days that I was trying to get into art school, walked here and admired the mud bound water vehicles, but never stayed.

Someone I know (who lives on the Island) assisted in finding me a nook to spend my quarantine time in. That was here, on Mersea Island. It was a golden opportunity. I grabbed it with both hands.

True to form, the days were sunny as I was room bound, dank and miserable as soon as I was eligible for parole. Today's like that. Trying to prove everyone right about the British Summer. Well at least I don't have to see the half naked men roaming the streets and shore line. I am forever thankful for small mercies.

Before jetting off to the Far East, I had lived around the historic town of Colchester for nearly fifty years, in different villages and locations. I was back for a couple of weeks, four years ago. That really was a culture shock.

Yesterday I took the 67 bus from High Street West Mersea to Osborne Street in Colchester. I discovered that although the bones of the town, the water tower called 'Jumbo', and the Town Hall still dominant over the High Street, were still there, much had changed. The former Colchester had a surface of country gentility, with an undercurrent of Essex rowdyism and skirmishes between town and barracks. The gentility had gone and Colchester had the air of a town barely hanging on against the barbarians at the gates.

This time around the shock is not as pronounced. There have been further changes, true, and just while I have been trying to accept those I had been aware of, but that's life. The previously free Library now charges for membership (£1.15). But Colchester is lucky to still have a Library, though it's much smaller in stock than the original Library, the one I grew up virtually living in, on West Stockwell Street.

I had a merry game of spot the shop. Seeing which shops had remained and which had changed over the passage of time. It seems that not many had remained. The worse hit were the book shops. Colchester had many antiquarian and second hand book shops. Most have vanished.

Shops have come and gone. Woolworths (Woolies) has gone again. I say again because it was there, then vanished, returned and has gone again. The departmental store Williams and Griffin (WG) has gone, which signalled the de-gentrification of the town, that and the High Street Sainsburys departing (like ravens and the Tower of London). Now Debenhams has closed and chained its doors too.

To counter these losses, Colchester has gained a multitude of smaller ethnic shops and restaurants, successfully giving this Essex/Suffolk Border town all the trappings of London's East End. Shops range from Turkish and Oriental mini-marts selling everything from frozen mutton (for goat curry), harissa for reasonably authentic Middle Eastern dishes, rice, frozen Dim Sum and dried noodles. 

Restaurants now include ethnic Indian, Italian, Greek, Turkish and Mexican (well Tex Mex) Caribbean as well as the British style Indian (Bangladeshi), British Chinese flavoured (pseudo Cantonese) and a number of burger joints including The Flag Burger (in Church Street) designing burgers from a multitude of countries including Korea.

My insight continues.

Arty Farty

In west Mersea town

Where all

Are hail and hearty

Folks aren't 

Drab and plain 

Instead are arty farty

Art galleries 

And cafes

Abound and delight

Photographers

And painters too

I think that that's right

Strolling in the sunshine 

Without the workaday hustle

We're all devouring

Crabs

Oysters and Mussels

It's a summer's 

Joy

Indeed to see

So many be-masked denizens

And all

Beside the seaside

Beside the sea.

Wraith Dreams

I watch milk clouds in my tea. Like Mann's Gustav von Aschenbach I, detatchedly, admire beauty in teacups, behind counters, seated in the British sun, strolling like continentals on coastal pavements. In my negligible rented bedroom I have come to emulate Hesse's Harry Haller and await a future Magic Theatre. 

This is my life now, Albion June sun teasing my wooden Art Cafe tabletop, familiar yet unaccustomed. I am a be-masked discordant wraith within the ring of Peter and Paul's, engulfed in drifting shorelines of memory, lingering dissonance, adrift, a refugee in my own land, a place of The Green Man, Herne and The Goddess. A place of ancient charms, sweet magics and dreams.

Q Day 10 To See the Sea

Q Day 10 - To See the Sea

It is the last day of my quarantine, and it's a Monday.

Monday's seem to get bad press. What with The Boomtown Rats (1979) 'I Don't Like Mondays' and the Mammas and Pappas (1966) entirely negative 'Monday Monday', popular music has reflected the working person's lament over the loss of freedom of the Weekend in a glass half empty manner, while Garfield (the comic cat) didn't like Monday because it was left-over lasagne day, not fresh.

If Sunday (the sun's day) is the final day of the week, hence the day of rest, then Monday ("mondandaeg" in Anglo Saxon, in Latin - dies lunae) is the Moon's day and, according to international standard ISO 8601, is the beginning of a new week. So why the bad press?

Some might say that after the relative freedom of the Weekend, Monday is a reminder that we are all shackled to the weekly drudge and, having little choice, must endure five days of graft before being free again. But is it?

While many might adopt a negative attitude towards working for a living, there are those who simply don't. A great many people actually look forward to going back to work on Monday, away from the tedium of Saturday and Sunday and look forward to being with work colleagues, tackling problems and the stimulus of being productive.

One of the things that shocked me in Malaysia, when I first went, was that people were expected to work half day on Saturdays. Saturday half-day working, for most British, began because of low wages in the 1870s, but was gradually phased out from the 1930s onward. Malaysia is changing, just as Britain did.

For me, today, Monday, I rejoice. My freedom awaits on the morrow. Ten days of imprisonment in a bedroom is enough. I long to eat real food again, not microwaved diahorreah inducing pseudo cuisine. 

As Queen (1984) sang 'God knows, God knows I want to break free', like Anthony Hope's 'The Prisoner of Zenda' (1894), or Alexandra Dumas 'The Count of Monte Cristo' (1895). After four years I want to finally experience Mersea Island again, see the sea and walk the cockle and mussel beaches, smell the brine and finally feel the sea breeze upon my face.