Dumbed down by a migraine.
I wonder, while typing, how the words are ordered and why.
The wonder that is my class went down to the big kids classroom as I rode home to vomit some more. My pet misfit was a challenge to Sucih. I was glad to have someone else see what it is I am faced with. I am wondering if all those psyche books are genuine. The child is undernourished in love and affection. Mum's life comes first, dad is an inexperienced young man at his wits end, and I have the result. A South American boy of 8yr's with a shit load of attitude as the world continues to do him an injustice. He is getting better but it is drawing all I can give. I feel like I am experimenting with theory and watching it work. They say these kids just need a stack of love and understanding. As I watch him try and please me while anxious to be part of th group I can see he isn't really diffierent just a little torn from a difficult start. Can you imagine the slums of USA or South America and what they are pumping out. Does it take a ton of education and care to show a human being that violence and neglect are not viable options for progressive child rearing. Some animals do a better job than humans.
I trudge off with a head still reeling and a body still quacking from the fit like spasms that migraines bring on. Actually i ride off but I wonder how negotiating the mud paths will be as I experience my half stupor like life.
It's getting cooler and I wonder if I will have to submit to a synthetic jumper from Navadwipa. They are trully awful. Glitter, who thought of glitter in winter garb?
A devotee sends a letter about meat close ups. Meat eaters are not a fussy bunch so it is probably a waste of time. It did have a lead on to colon cleansing which had a series of photos of people with their excrement. Fascinating stuff for those that have bowel troubles. Of course Sucih, the great healthy plopper thinks I am mad but not as mad as the lady standing next to a photo of her poo in her kitchen colander.
Back to the 8 year old and h is bodily needs. Back to organising the grade 2 class room. Back to performing.
Where is that cup of green tea?
Friday, November 30, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Abstractions
Keeping a blog is some what like going to a confest and having qualms about having to swim starkers. I sat on the side of the river for hours contemplating wether I could get in naked. I didn't do it in the end. I don't think I went to the toilet for two days either. The naked thing is a bit much and so the blog thing is really a bit much. But now I am sure no one at all reads it I think I am feeling a little better. Like I'm back in my own room and feeling safe. Must conquer own mind.....in good time.
Well the 4,000 people from Mumbai have gone and a less large group of locals has descended. I imagine it has something to do with Jayapataka Maharaj. Last four days of Kartika; if you follow a fast of grains then it is the equivalant of having followed austerities of sorts for the whole month. Cool huh? So guess who takes advantage of that one.
So I say I am glad no one reads it and yet I speak as though to some one. There is probably medication for just such a disorder.
The patio in Mayapur is fantastic in winter. The sun warming and the trees all around. Harinams passing frequently and bhajans floating about all day. All the HMIE students are here.
School has been good but now some Aussie pilgrims are here distractions are mounting and will inevitably effect my class planning. To get a really creative flow it is an all or nothing affair for me.
Sucih is in Kolkata and the phone is flat, his driver is no where to be seen and I haven't any numbers for him. Hahah, teach him to rely too much on technology. Write the numbers on a piece of paper just for fun will you.
Baby pigeons flutter on the veranda figuring how to fly but thankfully gut out while always busy depositing excrement.
Kalki is adither moving here and there. Yonder he rides with his mates to Taranpur and back. He turns eight today and if I recall I had the same adventures as he. We rode our bikes for hours all over the place. Some inovative children are holding a play with a small feed after wards for the small price of 6 rupees per head. Too cute.
As strange as it is, there are now quite a lot of Chinese devotees here. Who would have guessed that China would come so far. It is such an oppresive place. They jail people for suspected religious acts.
A bus horn was so loud that it wrenched me from me deeply desired slumber.
A Chinese flute turns the house into something very pleasent with the added ambience of absent young son and his half dozen friends in perpetual tow.
Lalita resides in Australia while the soup simmers here. Nothing changes just the spices mix differently. If it isn't one tiresome episode it is another until it gets so that the episodes cease to be so tiresome and start to resemble entertainment. Then you know you are really detached. As long as the variables steer clear of the confines of the home.
Sun goes down on the Ganga and the flute calls out as if in memory of this place as once a village of Brahmin Vaisnavas. A city is manifesting and I am not sure how I feel about it. It is as if the footy crowd is now barricking for God. All well and good if you like the roar of thousands of human voices. In actuality it is a scary affair be it footy or God.
Must bake some bread but maybe I will just boil some rice and save the act of baking bread for a more pious moment. Hay maybe I won't bother cooking anything at all.
Kalki is back. Oh God, the mozzies.
Well the 4,000 people from Mumbai have gone and a less large group of locals has descended. I imagine it has something to do with Jayapataka Maharaj. Last four days of Kartika; if you follow a fast of grains then it is the equivalant of having followed austerities of sorts for the whole month. Cool huh? So guess who takes advantage of that one.
So I say I am glad no one reads it and yet I speak as though to some one. There is probably medication for just such a disorder.
The patio in Mayapur is fantastic in winter. The sun warming and the trees all around. Harinams passing frequently and bhajans floating about all day. All the HMIE students are here.
School has been good but now some Aussie pilgrims are here distractions are mounting and will inevitably effect my class planning. To get a really creative flow it is an all or nothing affair for me.
Sucih is in Kolkata and the phone is flat, his driver is no where to be seen and I haven't any numbers for him. Hahah, teach him to rely too much on technology. Write the numbers on a piece of paper just for fun will you.
Baby pigeons flutter on the veranda figuring how to fly but thankfully gut out while always busy depositing excrement.
Kalki is adither moving here and there. Yonder he rides with his mates to Taranpur and back. He turns eight today and if I recall I had the same adventures as he. We rode our bikes for hours all over the place. Some inovative children are holding a play with a small feed after wards for the small price of 6 rupees per head. Too cute.
As strange as it is, there are now quite a lot of Chinese devotees here. Who would have guessed that China would come so far. It is such an oppresive place. They jail people for suspected religious acts.
A bus horn was so loud that it wrenched me from me deeply desired slumber.
A Chinese flute turns the house into something very pleasent with the added ambience of absent young son and his half dozen friends in perpetual tow.
Lalita resides in Australia while the soup simmers here. Nothing changes just the spices mix differently. If it isn't one tiresome episode it is another until it gets so that the episodes cease to be so tiresome and start to resemble entertainment. Then you know you are really detached. As long as the variables steer clear of the confines of the home.
Sun goes down on the Ganga and the flute calls out as if in memory of this place as once a village of Brahmin Vaisnavas. A city is manifesting and I am not sure how I feel about it. It is as if the footy crowd is now barricking for God. All well and good if you like the roar of thousands of human voices. In actuality it is a scary affair be it footy or God.
Must bake some bread but maybe I will just boil some rice and save the act of baking bread for a more pious moment. Hay maybe I won't bother cooking anything at all.
Kalki is back. Oh God, the mozzies.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Rasa Rani Priya
Rasa Rani Priya got initiated today. Formally known as Rasa Rani, daughter of Sitala and Hari Sauri. It was a very intimate affair on one of the roof top gardens of Mayapur. The garden was lovely and many deities were brought by some of the guests. Ramadevi brought her little Govardhana sila. There were sila's galore inside Pralhada Nrsima's house. And last but not least a wonderful kitchen. [ An old house wife at heart.]
It is Gopastami today and we will all be off to the goshala for a few hours of cow petting, singing and stories. Poor Sucih has to go to a school board meeting.
It has been trying inspite of the prolific nectar. Be thankful for mercies. The modes are spinning round like tornados and I wonder that my head is still on. Dramas with another teacher who percieves me as a low life and a class that needs the utmost care and dedication in teaching. Lessons from within and without. I wondered if it was the moldovite but combine that with the dham and we have dynamite for kick starting a spiritual life that has been mostly on hold. How to fathom it all.
A good start is to get up fairly early. That entails going to bed early but no matter what I do there is always something or one to keep me up. A little seven year old son is probably the biggest hurdle in this regard.
The girls, Tara, Radha and Rasa in Vrndavan. Radha wants to take initiation next year. Hopefully all will work out in that regard.
You know, sometimes if I want a word it jumps into my head and often I don't even know what it means. I go look it up and sure enough it is the perfect word, like soliloquy. How is that?
It is Gopastami today and we will all be off to the goshala for a few hours of cow petting, singing and stories. Poor Sucih has to go to a school board meeting.
It has been trying inspite of the prolific nectar. Be thankful for mercies. The modes are spinning round like tornados and I wonder that my head is still on. Dramas with another teacher who percieves me as a low life and a class that needs the utmost care and dedication in teaching. Lessons from within and without. I wondered if it was the moldovite but combine that with the dham and we have dynamite for kick starting a spiritual life that has been mostly on hold. How to fathom it all.
A good start is to get up fairly early. That entails going to bed early but no matter what I do there is always something or one to keep me up. A little seven year old son is probably the biggest hurdle in this regard.
The girls, Tara, Radha and Rasa in Vrndavan. Radha wants to take initiation next year. Hopefully all will work out in that regard.
You know, sometimes if I want a word it jumps into my head and often I don't even know what it means. I go look it up and sure enough it is the perfect word, like soliloquy. How is that?
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Mud flats on the Ganga
We caught a boat on the Ganga to some mud flats to watch Nirguna's body get burnt.
He left at about 11 am today. The devotees sang really loud bhajans night and day. They had succeeded in turning his departure into a communal experience. I slept to the perpetual sinnging so that it haunted my dreams. It was nice and I am grateful at the communal aspects of life when things are surrenderd to the sublime.
His body was placed on the pyre and though there was a heap of wood his feet protruded. As his flesh burnt my stomach churned although it was empty, luckily for me. One of his legs fell off the pyre and a Bengali devotee picked it up and popped it back on the pyre. We left before his other leg dropped. Vrnda watched his head bake. Watched his eye balls pop and drip, his brains ooz. All up, it is enough to take the joy of any aesthetic attachment to the body right out of your head. Did I say head, let me rephrase that, mind.
I envy his freedom and I also felt the emptyness he has left though I never knew him. They go to a place beyond our reach and leave us melancholy knowing we can not see or hear it. We are disconected, out of touch, far away from it all. It is both consoling and sad.
Well that was a blow out for me. It is less strange now. A bit like the strangeness I felt when I first saw a mother feed a five year old child her breast milk. Now I consider it normal. I have come such a long way from urban aussie. Alternate third world resident traypsing off to Nepal every six months. Who would have bloody guessed. Not me when I slept in my bunk in Caroline Crescent, Bundoora, Melbourne. When I walked to school after feasting on Weat Bix and Milo. I escaped the packaging.
Speaking to Tridisa tonight about addiction to packaging. If it's in a package he is happy. Crazy world. Package me please and pickle my brain while you are it. Keep me from feeling all but what the telly allows.
Shit it is tragic and yet surrender we must to something or some one. I think I will surrender to knowing I must and be consoled that I surrendered to the more interesting God. The corporate god just doesn't cut it.
He left at about 11 am today. The devotees sang really loud bhajans night and day. They had succeeded in turning his departure into a communal experience. I slept to the perpetual sinnging so that it haunted my dreams. It was nice and I am grateful at the communal aspects of life when things are surrenderd to the sublime.
His body was placed on the pyre and though there was a heap of wood his feet protruded. As his flesh burnt my stomach churned although it was empty, luckily for me. One of his legs fell off the pyre and a Bengali devotee picked it up and popped it back on the pyre. We left before his other leg dropped. Vrnda watched his head bake. Watched his eye balls pop and drip, his brains ooz. All up, it is enough to take the joy of any aesthetic attachment to the body right out of your head. Did I say head, let me rephrase that, mind.
I envy his freedom and I also felt the emptyness he has left though I never knew him. They go to a place beyond our reach and leave us melancholy knowing we can not see or hear it. We are disconected, out of touch, far away from it all. It is both consoling and sad.
Well that was a blow out for me. It is less strange now. A bit like the strangeness I felt when I first saw a mother feed a five year old child her breast milk. Now I consider it normal. I have come such a long way from urban aussie. Alternate third world resident traypsing off to Nepal every six months. Who would have bloody guessed. Not me when I slept in my bunk in Caroline Crescent, Bundoora, Melbourne. When I walked to school after feasting on Weat Bix and Milo. I escaped the packaging.
Speaking to Tridisa tonight about addiction to packaging. If it's in a package he is happy. Crazy world. Package me please and pickle my brain while you are it. Keep me from feeling all but what the telly allows.
Shit it is tragic and yet surrender we must to something or some one. I think I will surrender to knowing I must and be consoled that I surrendered to the more interesting God. The corporate god just doesn't cut it.
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