DIARY 52 - Venus Fly Trap Syndrome

Those two previous snippets from my dream life, sort of give imaginative flesh to aspects of my inner state of mind this week. At times overwhelmed and darkly introspective, on other ocassions deeply frustrated with being me,or with my job. Both have appeared to be in a bardo of treading stagnant water, which is most likely to have its origins in a perceptual bias or colouring, rather than being an actual physical circumstance. As ever it was all in the mind.

My acupuncturist performed a particular pin formation on my body last Saturday morning, to release blocked creative energy. The rest of the day I felt distinctly uneasy, without being entirely clear what the focus for my apprehension was. By Sunday I think it had emerged, I was just extremely irritable and unhappy with almost everything. Even though I was expending most of my energy in trying to contain my responses (which were many), it was palpable enough for David to sense it. He was concerned incase he'd done something wrong, which he hadn't, it was just me feeling as prickly and sensitive as a Venus Fly Trap.

Doubts about my job in Customer Services emerged strongl, once again. I couldn't even summon enough enthusiasm to engage with my own creative writing, which is often a great source of sustanance when I'm finding things difficult. Life at that particular moment felt full of discontent, it was as if I was being sucked in by some mental form of quicksand. Eaten up and spit out by negativity of the most feral kind. An old, and very unhelpful, view re-emerged; that no matter how much effort I put into improving a situation, it's all a waste of effort, and bound to fail. Keeping positive and optimistic in the face of this sort of onslaught Ifound a task and a half. This black metal billed bird has effectively consumed my creative brain power many many times in the past

I have also sensed before this shadowy part of myself who seems pretty inhinged, if not mad with me, or life. It appears to have lost patience with waiting, and wants to pull me away, to escape from the tyranny and shackles of responsiblity. Desiring more creative freedom and playfulness than I'm currently able to offer it. Strong imagery,with strong emotions attached, are obviously stirring restlessly in my meltingpot. Perhaps it is an indication that I need to change or improve the ingredients, or find a more appropriate recipe for what I'm currently doing with my life.

DREAM FIVE - Things get out of control

I'm in a sort of minder relationship with a childlike, if not mentally retarded man. Most of the time I'm trying to prevent him escaping. When he does break out, I'm chasing after him, hoping to prevent him perpetrating some mad atrocity of some kind. On one occasion he gets out yet again, with an open tin of white paint and a brush in his hand, and is found dramatically slapping the paint over everything in sight. Paint blobs are splashing and flying everywhere. The dream ends when white specks of emulsion paint land on me, and spoil my new black shirt.

DREAM FOUR - Bird Brain

It took place out in the desert scrub, surrounded by rocky outcrops, scree and scorched grass. I'm observing this strange otherworldly beast, a black bird/man with a huge bill made entirely of shiny silver. It's furiously ferreting earth away, digging deeply beneath the desert surface. It appears to be looking for dead bodies, when it finds them it cracks open their cranium and eats their brains. It reminded me of a figure from the Egyptian book of the dead, which is half hyena and half crocodile, and refered to as 'the eater of souls'.

SCREEN SHOT - Before the devil knows you're dead

Why this movie didn't get a wider distribution I really don't know. David and I have been looking out for it for weeks. Finally, it's turned up in Cambridge, but it has been worth the wait. It's a real corker, but hard going emotionally, as it's unremitting and doom ridden storyline unfolds. The essential premise is the classic heist that goes seriously wrong, the repercussions for all involved, are tragic. 'Before the devil knows your dead' deftly plays out it's unfolding storyline, revealing its hand gradually through a series of flash backs from differing perspectives, which expand your understanding of what has really gone on. Slowly you realise what a mess the relationship between these people was in before the robbery, and what drove them to the lunacy of it in the first place. Under the skilled hands of octogenarian director Sidney Lumet, you are drawn into a hard hearted, grubby and unforgiving world, as they try to conceal their duplicitous involvement in the heist.

Two brothers, Andy ( Philip Seymour Hoffman ) and Hank ( Ethan Hawke ) plan to rob their parents jewellery store. It seems an easy thing to do, no one will get hurt. If all goes well, both of them will sort out the financial mess they've got themselves into. Whilst Andy initiates the idea, he's coldly manipulates his no hoper brother into actually doing the job. Hank can't face doing it alone, so he employs an experienced hit man. What starts out as a clean robbery without consequence, fails, but turns into the murder of their Mother instead. The veneer of civility within the family, eventually fractures, as buried hateful resentments come to the surface. Even the brother's Father, Charles ( Albert Finney ), appears to have a dirty and unscrupulous past. In his grief and anger, he wants to find and take out whoever planned the heist. It's only matter of time before he'll find out, and everything unravels without a trace of mercy.

The acting plaudits go to all three lead actors, who lift this superlative film script to even greater heights. The plot twists give the film sufficient momentum, but do so without the split second editing or a heavy handed soundtrack, a weaker or more poorly realised movie might employ. It remains always a very human film at heart. It's a sign of its quality script and acting that you never lose sympathy with the characters. You stay with them, even as the consequences drive them to increasingly unpalatable and extreme actions. 'Before the devil knows your dead' might hide its distinguished calibre, but it remains an unassuming, but classic movie, which is currently being shamefully ignored.

FINISHED READING - Haruki Murakami - Underground

THE TOKYO GAS ATTACK AND THE JAPANESE PSYCHE

One ordinary Monday morning, people in Tokyo left their homes at the usual time. Thousands took their habitual routes via the subway system to their places of work. As they travelled, they read their books, observed other passengers,and waited for their stop to appear. At first, it was just the odd individual who started coughing badly, nothing remarkable about that. There was a funny smell slightly sweet, but quite unpleasant. More and more people started coughing, an old men falls off his seat and slumps to the floor, they suddenly find their eyes sting and their sight gradually dims. The train pulls up in a station, some people get off and manage to get to work before they feel ill, others can hardly put one step in front of the other, and collapse onto the platform. The station staff do what they can, but it is a while before anyone notices the packages wrapped in newspapers that are leaking a sticky yellowish substances onto the floor of the subway train. When the staff do remove the package, they haven't a clue what they are handling or how to respond. As a consequence, and due to prolonged contact, some of them will eventually die. Hospitals are overrun with patients, vital moments, sometimes hours, are lost in trying to decide what sort of gas attack they are dealing with. Over 5,000 people were affected by this sarin attack, a dozen or so die, many hundreds are in some way maimed for life. Who could have done such a treacherous and cruel thing, and why?

Murakami's book, is really two books, two thirds consists of interviews with the survivors and relatives of the dead, and a final third interviews members of the Aum Shinryko cult that perpetrated the atrocity. The interviews with the survivors can sometimes be disconcerting, particularly in how distant and reserved they are, whilst an obvious tragedy is taking place all around them. There are records of great heroism and compassion too, and a pain filled glimpse into one beautiful young woman's condition, who has lost the ability to speak in anything other than huffs or grunts. The physical and mental cost to peoples lives was immense. But there was also a social and spiritual cost, a loss of a sense of purpose, of life's meaning, or simply diminished confidence and optimism. Some hate the members of Aum, others feign indifference, or just don't want to know any more.

Has Japan collectively faced up to why this incident happened? Murakami thinks not. That was why he later chose to interview the Aum members, to try and tease out further what went wrong. These are the most shocking interviews. As a Buddhist, it is disturbing to see how blatantly Asahara reinterprets, bends and distorts the most basic of teachings, such as the Four Noble Truths. The fact that all people suffer, ends up making the Aum followers an enlightened elite, that justified looking down on 'ordinary people', 'ordinary people' who are worthy of being massacred. Tantric Vajryana in his hands becomes a spiritual fast track which justifies any means, skilful or otherwise, including gassing thousands of innocent people. Aum had a rigid, yet unfathomable hierarchical structure, completely dictated by the word of the Guru, or his most senior disciples. As a doomsday cult, Aum exploited the 'end of the world' scenario to create a sense of spiritual urgency – 'do you want liberation before it all goes pear shaped or not? - if you do, do what the Guru says.'

Before the sarin attacks the levels of coercion reached appalling heights. People were hung upside down for hours and forcible tortured. Members were force fed mind altering drugs to accelerate their 'spiritual' development. If you resisted or questioned, you might be given electric-shock treatment, to 'break your ego.' In this climate of unquestioning obedience to the Guru, and the explicit background of intimidation, you start to understand how quite intelligent people could pierce bags of liquid sarin with the points of umbrellas on the subway trains and walk away. All as part of a process of spiritual salvation. Yet even the Aum followers who have now left it, cannot find it in themselves to dismiss Aum completely, they got something useful from their involvement, it was not easy for them to denounce it completely.

Perhaps it was just a sense of wanting to belong to something meaningful, an alternative to an inadequate secular world, to want something more or better from life. Not entirely inhuman aspirations. This book has no underlying message, it lets you read the testimonies and make your own judgements. For me it demonstrated that idealism, if not adequately grounded in reality and compassionate understanding of human failings, can become a very cruel insensitive weapon to use against yourself, or upon others.

DIARY 51 - ' YATAA ! ' ( I did it ! )

The time since Christmas has been a curious mix of satisfaction and its direct polar opposite. I took thirteen days off between Christmas Eve and New Year, perhaps that was an unfortunate number. David and I celebrated Christmas day together, in our usual style, perhaps with a slightly reduced 'pig-out' quotient. David got the entire first series of 'Heroes' as a Christmas present. So we spent most evenings addictively watching an episode or three. The character Hiro Nakamura is my latest role model, mainly for his enthusiastic optimism, the uninhibited, if not reckless, confidence with which he tackles life,and his delighted exclamation of 'YATAA ! ( I did it ! in Japanese ), which has joined the lexicon of my favorite phrases.

My days, I largely devoted to writing, aiming to get the first draft completed of a newish Dogen piece I'm currently writing, called 'Firewood becomes Ash.' All went well for a week, but just as I found my creativity ploughing into the snowdrift of how to conclude it, I got a phone call. The one person I'd arranged to work the quiet period between Christmas and New Year had fallen ill - could I organise new cover? It wasn't so bad as I'd initially thought, it was one day of cover by me, and two days from another member of staff. Though, nothing could make it anything less than an unwelcome interruption, for both of us, of our holiday breaks. I did mentally step, briefly, into the quicksand of despondency. I can see, in retrospect, that this situation bore more than a passing resemblance to some of those dismal days in the 'nineties', when I ran my own business. The emotional discomfort and fidgeting I can feel whilst in a position of responsibility, appears also to date back to this time. This mixture of aversion, increased levels of anxiety, and diminished confidence in my decision making, can, at times, wind me up good and proper. Sometimes, I yearn for the quiet obscurity and contentment I associate with a background supporting role, whilst at the same time realising how short lived that contentment can sometimes be. As I do so easily get bored and restless with creatively undemanding positions.

Getting consistent amounts of sleep would be a help, but it is still a struggle. I resorted to herbal sleep tablets over the holiday to help me relax and unwind. I'm still using them at the moment, but I don't want to come to rely on them. They're not always consistent in there effect, sometimes, I end up being physically relaxed, whilst simultaneously being suffused by an aura of anxiety - a sensation which can feel distinctly alienating. That said I don't feel quite as mentally ragged and on edge now, as I did in 2007, which is a boon. I hope 2008 will continue to improve on this front.

At work, the protracted process of revamping Customer Services has begun. I don't have some huge overarching vision for it, more a sense for what will help move it towards a healthier state .i e. one with clearer boundaries and a more shared sense of responsibility for tasks. This is my starter for ten. I imagine this process will not be without its tensions, disappointments, set backs and challenges, both on a personal and a collective level. However, there is too much history of illness and burnout connected with the Team, for it's current set-up and mode of operation to remain unchanged. Old habits and ways will die hard I expect. I will also need to raise the level of my on personal practice too; managing anxiety better, keeping my nerve, and facing up to some of my oldest and most entrenched habits. Watch out ! this could be a bumpy ride for all concerned, including me. Perhaps by the end of 2008 I too will be able to exclaim 'YATAA ! ( I did it ! ).

Last Saturday, 19^th of January, was the 807 anniversary of Dogen's birth. On the Friday before, Paco and I performed The Shobogenzo Puja, that I compiled towards the end of last year, (You'll find it somewhere else on this blog). It went fine, and I thought flowed smoothly. There was only two of us, so we did a lot of it in unison rather than call and response. I imagine the 1hr and twenty minutes running time (which included 20 minutes meditation) would be more 1hr and forty, if we had done it as I'd originally conceived it. I might adapt it further and produce an abbreviated version, if I thought it would work. Anyway, it has had its first public performance, one which I felt more than satisfied with. I can't imagine how Dogen would have felt about it.

CD Review No 8 - Arcade Fire

After reading a few reviews, fulsome in their praise, I took a gamble and bought 'Funeral' by Arcade Fire. Whilst I can certainly hear much that shows promise and flair, I can't quite make the music match up with the ecstatic ravings of fans and journalists. On first hearing I really was puzzled, there wasn't sufficient, audible at least, to warrant the grand claims, unless I was suffering from tinnitus or something. So far as I'm aware, excessive listening to Deep Purple at high volume in my youth, hasn't made me musically deaf. Yet something is missing from Arcade Fire, that essential x-factor which would delight your ears and uplift your heart, and make them a truly exciting band to stumble across. 'Funeral' is good, and a cut above many rock bands, who ,even on their third attempt, fail to lay the golden egg - the definitive rock album of their generation. Like most first albums it is riddled with a random scattering of bullet holes that its influences seep out of. Popping up to say 'hello, remember me ?' are moments of Talking Heads, ELO ,The Cure, a bit of U2 (seemingly obligatory these days) and an esoteric touch of Split Enz (which they probably weren't even aware of).

Apart from the usual trio of drums, guitar and bass, they assemble an impressive battery of instruments not traditionally associated with rock music, such as accordions, xylophones, recorders, plus heavy amounts of violins and horns. There must be enough to make up two five-a- side football teams when they play live. Managing this range of musical sounds, requires great orchestration and production expertise. Unfortunately, it is mainly the production which lets the band down, frequently muddying the dynamics. Musical motifs are often to be found buried deep within their mishandling of a Phil Spector like 'wall of sound.' The tempos build up and reach the grand strut of a crescendo repeatedly. There fondness for this device, often results in hysterically overstretched vocals struggling to be heard over the propulsive drama going on underneath. As the vocalist has not the vocal strength of character to pull this off, the impression created is not of a magnificent musical vista, but of something rather more strained and indistinct. Arcade Fire, can misfire and hit the bulls eye within the same song, almost in spite of themselves. They are reputedly better live, which I could well imagine to be true.

Perhaps I am getting a bit carried away with my own rhetoric and criticism here. I'm in danger of presenting an entirely dismissive review, simply by over emphasising their more obvious flaws. There are more than a few marvellous moments when they truly sparkle, such as on 'Neighbourhood 1 (Tunnels)' & 'Crown of Love' ,moments when, in spite of my initial misgivings, I really do like them. The excessive adulation really has done them a disservice. They are a significant band, whose individuality and eccentricities are certainly addictive. I find myself listening to them frequently, with tunes rattling around in the attic of my consciousness unexpectedly. So they can't be all bad, which, of course they aren't. It's just they have not, in my book achieved a coherent musical vision yet. Though a truly great band is buried in there somewhere. To unearth it you'd have to do some pretty serious pruning. First, you'd have to improve the production, get in some top notch guy, who knows how to heighten and bring out the self-evident dynamics of their arrangements. Second, I'm not entirely won over by the vocal quality and style of Win Butler, their lead vocalist. His thin, weary sounding voice is too often painfully reminiscent of Robert Smith, only with with a touch of laryngitis. Time after time the undoubted splendour of a song is tempered by having his forced screeching flying across it, like aircraft noise. In short, he's not a great singer, and maybe that significant something which will permanently impede their undoubted promise.

I would be interested to hear 'Neon Bible', their second album, just to monitor progress on how they refine and clarify their sound. It maybe that they never get there, and 'Funeral' will become something commonly found in popular music - an album of unfulfilled potential. Whether Arcade Fire will end up having the substance of greatness is definitely an open question, as yet.

DIARY 50 - Sleep little man cub

Since the car accident in August I've had a whole series of stiff necks and shoulders, often triggered by the slightest cold snap or the weather turning mildly damp. A few visits to the acupuncturist later the problem has begun to ease. I had another pricking this weekend, elbows and wrists in the main. I mentioned that I slept on the side of the bed facing the outside wall, and that the cold emanating off it did seem to have an effect on whether I woke up stiff and aching or not. He then suggested I change the side of the bed I sleep on. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut.

Funny how you fall into unconscious but habitual ways of doing things, like which side of the bed you sleep on. So David was willing to experiment, and so for one night we dared to swap sides- the consequence was both of us had a dreadful nights sleep. Now this was hardly a fair trial period, but there is only so much lack of sleep I can take these days. When I'm on my usual side of the bed, I find myself forever resting the duvet edge back from oblivion, trying to keep the small of my back from too much exposure. You know how cold can seep under the tiniest of gaps and before you know it your flesh has attained a deathly chill. However, sleeping on the opposite side of the bed, just means its my balls get the frosty treatment. Which ever side I'm on I can find myself perched on the precipice of the bed, not able to turn over easily, as the mass of my partner David's body inches nearer. However, this is just how it is, unless our flat suddenly becomes magically larger, a bigger bed is out of the question. So for the time being we have to make do with the economy size, and me getting a cold back from time to time.

QUOTATION MARKS No 17

Life knows us not and we do not know life - we don't even know our own thoughts. Half the words we use have no meaning whatever and the other half each man understands each word after the fashion of his own folly and conceit.

Faith is a myth, and a belief shifts like mists on the shore; thoughts vanish; words, once pronounced, die and the memory of yesterday is as shadowy as the hope of tomorrow

JOSEPH CONRAD

CD Review No 7- David Sylvian

Japan's image and music was almost too uniformly well modulated and contrived. Their plundering of oriental musical motifs was like hearing them steal someone else's culture and parody it. It was often uncomfortable to listen to, you just wanted them to be honest and less self consciously deceitful. Sylvian's super smooth voice seemed another in a whole line of singers running off with the cut of Brian Ferry's suit. With the track 'Ghosts' he appeared suddenly to touch on something very immediate and distinctively personal. It was there only really big hit, and it was the moment I became briefly interested.

Twenty years on and Sylvian's voice has matured and thankfully lost much of its mannered warble. The quality of it is still like consuming large quantities of exotic chocolate truffle, rich and creamy warm in texture. In the past the musical settings have tried to match that full blooded silkiness and made them difficult offerings to digest all in one go without a sense of nausea rising. You scream out 'Enough! Enough! Any more and I'll be forced to vomit!!'

I've been catching up with his most recent output - two albums are minor gems - ' Blemish' a solo album, and 'Snow borne sorrow' with his new band Nine Horses. While they remain polished and sophisticated, the music is sparser, more angular and has unpredictable cross currents and fusions. 'Blemish' in particular shifts from long self-revelatory electronic backed tracks, such as the eponymous title track, to discomforting juxtapositions of free-improv guitar from maestro Derek Bailey, with Sylvian's well rounded tones.
It often sounds like something beautiful is being audibly crushed under a brutal foot. This is very human music interwoven with threads of lyrical pain. On 'The Only Daughter' the vocals quality is fractured as though impeded, ending up being stuttered across the ether. It's as if a deep emotional hurt is finally struggling to emerge and be heard. The final track 'Fire in the forest' begins with the words 'There is always sunshine, above the grey sky, I will try to find it, yes I will try' as if he once almost gave up hope, but has somehow recovered some optimism which he doesn't fully trust yet.

'Snow borne sorrow' is altogether a more positive musical, if not philosophical affair, with a knowing confident swagger, and a less striven for lyrical message. Perhaps the ghosts surrounding his failed marriage have been expelled. Or is it the presence of old collaborators Sakamoto and Jenson, that makes this album sound grounded and less cathartic. Perhaps the wounded heart has healed and cooled in the two years in-between 'Blemish' and 'Snow borne sorrow'. All things have passed and lost there ability to pierce him to the core. The frail trail of optimism present at the end of 'Blemish' has opened out into a confident re- assertion of faith, with greater depth and character to it. The first track 'Wonderful world' has a lighter, otimistic tone, with a spring in its step -

'It's a wonderful world, and you take and you give, and the sun fills the sky in the space where you live , its a day full of dreams , its a dream of a day, and the joy that it brings nearly sweeps her away, it's a wonderful world as the buildings fall down, and you quicken your step till your feet leave the ground, and your soaring above all the sorrow below, and your falling in love with those you don't know '

DIARY 49 - The Ageing of my Anxiety

My Mother is quite an anxious being, I seem to have inherited being anxious either through genes, karma or simply learning it from her example. It feels like I learnt how to be anxious in the womb, it certainly has an existential feel to it. Over the years I've got better at handling and facing my anxious tendencies. I've tended in the past to pile on the agony and make matters worse, accelerating its intensity till it became quite debilitating , so making decisions, maintaining a sense of purpose and keeping perspective would be well nigh impossible. Through growing older and years of practise as a Buddhist, I've learnt how to deal with my anxiety better, mostly by cultivating a calmer way of being, keeping perspective on difficulties, not worrying about things weeks before they're due to happen, that sort of thing, trying to contain the scope of the anxiety and not let it run rampant over my experience. Anxiety can so easily turn into quite a paralysing, despoiling ruler otherwise.

Working in the crematorium produced a distinct type of anxiety, one obviously more related to my own mortality. It seemed deeper in tone and I felt it more profoundly as an acidic ache in the pit of my stomach. Since I started working in Windhorse Customer Services I've noticed a different type of anxiety. It's felt as a knotted band stretched across the front of my upper chest, sometimes it feels warm as if a hot water bottle was pressed against it. My current level of anxiety, after years of being quite small and manageable, seems to be fluctuating unpredictably and occasionally gets beyond what I can handle and contain. There are a number of facets that are feeding it- I'm still learning my new job, and I'm aware that there are still gaps in my understanding and awareness of what needs doing. Things could go seriously awry without my being aware of it - simply the job itself, each time you pick up the phone you don't know what your going to have to deal with, this can be stress inducing, throw in a mild phone phobia I sometimes experience, and I guess you get the feel of this one - the team consists of three likeable but quite distinct individuals, with very strong tendencies - at present we seem to be constantly understaffed through illness, and so we are not getting all our tasks done effectively– all of which can lead to concerns about my own effectiveness as a manager entering my mind, dwelling in my thoughts, and sitting on my chest.

Now, most of the time I can hold all of this and not let it get out of control, but I've realised that at present the glass is pretty near full most of the time. On three occasions in the last month I think I've started to overspill, my containment leaks and runneth over - leaving work feeling pissed off, irritable and angry - I've woken up in the middle of the night in panicky states, and as a consequence have had a poor nights sleep. On each occasion it was triggered by a team member downloading a whole load of their anxiety and frustration late in the day and I've just been overwhelmed. From my Mother onward, I've found it difficult not to be overly affected by the anxiety of the people around me, even though I know its not rational nor helpful. I am attempting to keep perspective on the difficulties within my team, with the work and with me. I know none of this is going to be resolved quickly or easily, I came into this job knowing I was inheriting a bit of a poisoned chalice; the previous manager having burnt out. I do have a better grasp now on how I envisage the team developing in the future. I also need to develop a personal strategy on how to manage my anxiety even better than before. Though I recognise that its an emotional volition or habit that I will still have difficulty in turning around. Despite my best efforts it can so easily steal in and break my glasses!

DREAM THREE - Entering & Breaking

I'm living in a terraced house. It seems to be quite high for a terrace, about four of five floors. Very similar to the community houses I've lived in in Cambridge, or like a New York tenement. I'm not sure whether I am living in the whole house or just a second floor flat, but I see myself in my dream only on the second floor. I appear to be going about my usual day to day business within the house. This is frequently interrupted by a series of people appearing at the second floor window. At first its just the ladder and the hands, then the faces, in spite of my closing the window to prevent entry, two people get in. I find them in one of the rooms. I enter the room with a heavy object that I'm about to throw at them. One of them has his foot placed over my glasses which are lying on a white rug, he's threatening to break them. At this point I panic crying, and say aloud, even though I'm asleep 'No! No!No! don't break my glasses! don't break my glasses!don't break my glasses! At this point David wakes me up.

QUOTATION MARKS - No 16

So this holy life,

does not have gain, honour, and reknown for its benefit,

or the attainment of virtue for its benefit,

or the attainment of concentration for its benefit,

or knowledge and vision for its benefit.

But it is this unshakeable deliverence of mind that is the goal of this holy life, its heartwod, and its end

BUDDHA SHAKYAMUNI

from The Majjhima Nikaya-

The Shorter Discourse

on the Similie of the Heartwood

DIARY 48 - When one's cup is too full to drink from.

Work has been keeping me busy and tired, of late. Hence the lack of blog entries over the last month. Last week was particularly stressful. In the middle of it all I reached the limit of what I could assimilate, accommodate, accept - whatever it was, my mental in-tray was full to overflowing. What seemed to be getting me down was frustration and anger at situations I couldn't improve and ideas or projects I couldn't progress. On two evenings I left work feeling a incendury like fury that i dont ever remember experiencing with my work before. If my aspirations are blocked I slip, all to easily, into the unloving arms of despondency. This week, though busy, has been a bit steadier in pace, without the erratic and unexpected intensities which characterised its predecessor. I think I have passed some sort of watershed with regards to my new post. At first I was just learning the ropes, then I was finding out how to manage the team without anyone more experienced to help. Now its becoming clearer what direction I want to take the team in, and what I need to do first to get it moving forward in a positive direction. None of this is going to happen overnight.

Though its over three months since my car accident, I still find my neck and shoulders stiffening up in cold dank weather, much more frequently than in previous winters. Some of it has been exacerbated by further falls and collisions affecting my shoulders and neck, and bad posture when I'm at a computer at work or at home, because the screens were too low. I've now corrected the latter in both situations and things are gradually improving,with a little help from my acupuncturist with his 'rice spoon' massage.

What with recent weekend visits to the aged P's and a general pre- Christmas flurry of expenditure and weary passivity, not much writing is getting done. The new piece I'm working on 'Firewood & Ash' is proving slow in development, so, with what limited time I have available, progress has been snail like. Generally I'm pleased with what's coming out, it is perhaps a more intricate piece of writing than 'Binding one's Self without a rope' with a less obvious line of development. As ever it is pushing my understanding of Dogen to it's limits. I'm also doing study with Paco on the whole Genjo Koan, from which this extract on 'Firewood and Ash' comes. This has become equally stretching, but also satisfying. This week we took the unusual step of going to a local café ( CB2) and doing study upstairs, whilst we supped drinks at a table. I was unsure how this would go; I anticipated that it would be too public a place, our conversations would either be too prominent or be drowned in a surfeit of piped music and other peoples chit- chat. It turned out to be neither of those things. We had a very penetrating discussion exploring the intricate and paradox filled relationship between delusion and realisation, which I couldn't possibly summarise.