(Not) Killing in the Name Of....

Despite my username, I am not a Buddhist. At least, not officially. If anything I would call me more Bud-curious. I am still very much at the exploratory stage of my journey and whilst a lot of my interaction with Buddhist teaching has had a positive effect on my life, constantly challenging me to act with more compassion and wisdom on a daily level, I do not feel ready to commit to the path and take refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. I especially do not feel ready to undertake the five precepts that all Buddhists must promise to keep. I take these things very seriously and if I made the commitment it would turn my tiny world, as I know it now, upside down. I thought over the next month or so I would like to occasionally do a short blog on each one of the precepts so I can start to work through what they mean to me. So today, here are my reflections on precept number one.

For those of you who don’t know, the five Buddhist precepts are:

1. I undertake the precept to refrain from taking the life (killing) of living beings.

2. I undertake the precept to refrain from stealing. (lit. "taking what is not offered")

3. I undertake the precept to refrain from sexual misconduct (adultery, rape, exploitation, etc).

4. I undertake the precept to refrain from false speech (lying).

5. I undertake the precept to refrain from intoxicants which lead to heedlessness.

They don’t look like a big deal on the surface really, do they? Logical good advice just like the Ten Commandments but actually quite lenient because there are only five to keep! However, the more I think about them the more radical they are and the more a sincere commitment to stick to them, in spirit as well as in letter, would absolutely transform me as a person. Let’s examine the implications of the first precept:

I take this precept to mean I must not intentionally harm, as well as simply kill other creatures. The most significant thing this means to me is that I can no longer kill wasps or snakes or another creature that causes me annoyance or worse, danger. This to me is huge. I couldn’t get through a summer without my fly swat; such is my phobia of wasps and bees. To voluntarily take away that power I have over other creatures, to vow not to kill even if my own life was in danger breaks me out in a cold sweat. It means, in practical terms, that if a wasp lands on my arm I just have to let it be. I have to sit there and let the black and yellow evil fucker clamber all over me, stinging at will. If a spider crawls up my leg I have to be still and calm. If a snake runs over my foot I can’t attack it to protect myself. Man, this is rich panic attack territory, right here. I’d like it put on the record that I think I do at least agree with this precept, in principle at least. I think it goes without saying that a lot of harm has been done to this planet by the whole monotheistic Adam and Eve garden bullshit. Giving us hierarchical superiority over the other animals like that was always a bad idea in my book and it has been used throughout history to justify the most horrific of abuses of power. In taking the vow it’s just the practice that I know I’d really struggle with.

In terms of eating animals, in Buddhist circles opinion is really divided on this one. Some traditions eat meat, some don’t. Personally speaking if I took this precept I probably would become vegetarian. I know killing for food is different ethically than killing for other reasons, but it somehow doesn’t sit right with me to be all serious about compassion for living beings, and then tucking in to my Turkey roast on a Sunday enjoying the crackly skin of a bird that has had a shit life, a horrible death when at the end of the day it is possible to have a healthy vegetarian diet. However, and this is where the selfish part comes in, I love meat. I love its taste and texture, its flavour and smell. I just don’t know if I’m ready to turn my back on spare ribs and king prawns. Is that so bad?

Humans are obviously living beings too, and in reality are much more of a threat than any silly little spider. To me taking this precept would eliminate me from harming another human, even in self defense. Even if that person is doing harmful deeds; like hurting my family or friends. It would involve being absolutely committed to a life of non violence in a violent world. This is massive in its implications. I honestly don’t know if I would be able to stick to it.

As well as avoiding direct harm of people and animals in your own personal actions I think this precept calls implicitly for avoidance of industries and products that cause harm and destruction to people and planet. This is your basic ethical living that is very fashionable to talk about now (less so to actually do, I feel) and includes avoiding investing in or buying from companies that are involved in the arms trade, pillaging of natural world resources, exploitative labour, animal cruelty or anything that causes harm or loss of life to another living being. I try hard now to live as ethically as possible, but if I took this precept I would have to make a lot more changes from where I shop to the bank I’m with to the food I eat. I would have to think a lot more and have a lot more integrity about these kinds of issues, rather than pay lip service to them and then still buy nestle coffee because it’s on 2 for 1 in Sainsbury’s.

There’s much more that could be said about precept number 1, I have no doubt. I am sure books have been written about books on the subject. This is just meant to be a quick sketch from my point of view. If I ever do take these vows, I want to mean them, all of them, and to be clear about the implications that they will have in my life. Thinking about them is a good starting point, but I’m still a long way off from getting up there and making a public commitment to such radical changes in my life and world view. Right now, I’m at the stage of thinking the think and talking the talk. It is going to take a lot of bravery and hefty decisions before I finally get my rucksack on my back, pull my cagool on tight and set off on the rocky winding path of walking the Buddhist walk.

Don't Take Your Guns to Town, Kid

This week I have read quite a lot of blogs from the US, and obviously the Virginia Tech massacre seems to have brought the gun control issue to a head, as you would expect.

So I want to talk about guns. Not a subject I am hugely knowledgeable about, do not read the following blog for lots of statistical analysis or personal anecdotes. I have never held a gun. I have never, therefore, fired a gun. I have never had a gun fired at me. In fact, my only real experiences of guns are the fact that I have traveled in Gaza where I frequently heard gun battles, but they were usually a long way in the distance (still scary though). The only other time is spending a few minutes in an air gun shop with my brother in law (he made a few Beavis and Butthead noises to himself "cool…uh huh….awesome….") and then we moved on for a cream tea with extra strawberry jam at the nice shop at the end of the road. Hardly life in the ‘hood.

So I guess some people would think that it makes me very under-qualified to talk about the subject. I don’t agree.

I may not be knowledgeable enough to do an in depth analysis of the world gun trade, but I would just like it to be put on the record that, from my perspective, life without guns is fabulous.

I attended a state comprehensive school. It wasn’t the worst in the country but it wasn’t so far off the bottom of the league tables. It was enough having to cope with the hair pulling and verbal abuse I received at the hands of the other students. I am so glad that I was able to partake in my classes without hearing rumours along the grapevine that so and so has a gun in their bag and is waiting for you after school. I am so glad that there whilst there was undeniably a culture of violence at the comp, it never did and never has ended in a fatality.

The school was in a working class town. It wasn’t the safest place to live. People got beaten up for standing out, there were a lot of drugs and gangs. Despite that, I still managed to have a happy childhood where I was allowed to roam most of the streets, my life was not characterised by fear and danger. I feel that without the strict gun control we have in the UK this would not have been the same. I’m not saying I would have got shot. I’m just saying that with all the gun crime on top of everything else, my neurotic mother wouldn’t have let me leave the back garden and a lot of my fun childhood memories would have been stolen from me. I wouldn’t have been the only one. The lives of me and my friends would have been spent in front of computers and TV’s rather than walking through the woods behind the old pit or running through the fields on the common. I may have sometimes walked the long way home to avoid the bigger boys who shouted lewd things after me and my twelve year old girl friends, but imagine the power those bigger boys would have had with their dads stolen gun in their pocket. Guns are not just used to kill, but to cajole, to threaten, to rape. The bigger boys in my home town just had catapults and the real psychos had knives. But I’d rather take my chances with a man and a knife than a man and a gun, although neither, admittedly, is something I’d put on my wish list.

Finally, and this issue feels a lot closer to where I’m standing now: if guns were legal in the UK, I would be dead. I say this sincerely and honestly. Every depressive who has wrestled with the big one has a preferred method. A single, simple gunshot wound has always been mine. Less than a six months ago, I was so fucked up that had guns been legal I can say with certainty that I would have bought one, pulled the trigger and hey presto, exited the planet. 1 in 4 people in this country suffers from a mental illness at some point in their life. I don’t know the exact statistics relating to methods but I do know that studies have shown that in countries with guns, suicide rates tend to be higher as many more attempts are successful. I’m not saying that gunshot wounds are the only way to kill yourself, far from it, but it my own case, the method I was forced to use was much less effective and therefore there was time for me to be rescued by the paramedics and then time for me to be saved in hospital. If I had found easy access to a gun, I simply wouldn’t be here writing this now.

So, people, from where I’m standing, I say: fight to keep Britain as gun free as possible. Those in other countries who own a weapon: know that you are 41% more likely to be murdered if you have a firearm in your house, which to me would be as cold a comfort as the hard metal casing you so foolishly caress under your pillow. Let us not forget that guns are designed for one thing, and it’s not protection. Guns are made to kill. They tear apart communities, wreck lives, mame, wound and torture. I’m pleased to say that today I haven’t been one of the approximately 1000 people who died because of a gun. I hope I never will be.

Look at it this way: today I have been able to walk through my city’s streets unattended, carefree, feeling safe. For billions of people all over the world, because of the threat of the bullet there is so such feeling, no such freedom. I know you’re all going to laugh and call me a sucker idealist but for me there will never be any peace in the world until the firearms trade, both legal and illegal is dismantled. So why stop at Britain? Lets fight for the belief that the only place that people should to see guns in the whole world is stuck behind a glass cabinet, in an armory museum. Sure, it’s not a guarantee against the human violence (both headline grabbing and unreported) that dominates our planet, but it sure would be a step in the right direction.

A rare fashion post

I'm not really into clothes. Not really. In fact, I think you could reasonably put me in the bottom 1% of "people who are interested in clothes". I don't go clothes shopping, I don't dream of shoes or bags or hats. Most of my clothes are 10 years old and are usually hand me downs or presents from other people.

However, call me an overgrown adolescent, but I have a weakness for T shirts. T shirts with funny/clever or political slogans. T shirts to make you think. In your face, wear your heart on your sleeve (or tits) kind of things. Things to make people look and wonder and smile. Even, if I'm being very brave, things to piss people off.

I haven't bought any recently because we've been so short of cash for, say, the last seven years. But I stumbled across this site and I think it might be an incredibly dangerous find.

Just for starters:

This one

and

This one

and

This one

Gosh I feel dirty now. Must go an wash away all the consumer capitalist scum. Out damn spots goddamit!

Zazen under the Covers.

Yesterday was a good day in so many ways. I did a lot of great things and spoke at length to some old friends. I didn’t stop speaking until gone eleven and so by the time I came to bed I was totally wired. I like to go to bed at the same time as Owen, as the pre sleep snuggle is of the highest quality (it just cannot be beaten). However, I was finding it really hard to wind down, and was getting more and more stressed about the night ahead.

We have a “once I’m there I’m there” rule which means that no matter how frustrated I get, once I have committed to being under those covers, that is where I stay (loo breaks aside). We do this because if I don’t have this rule then when I am this stimulated I will simply sit up all night on the internet drinking huge cups of black coffee or watching subtitled films on TV for weeks and weeks on end. By the end of the period I am high as a kite and it starts to get into this dangerous territory that often ends in a right old pickle.

So, the thinking goes, if I at least am in bed, then the chances are I’ll get more sleep than if I’m not. It may sound a bit fascist, but the rule is a good one and that’s why we keep it. If I get very frustrated I can maybe take a valium midway through the night, but we think sleeping tablets are a very last resort. So last night I was tossing and turning, arranging the bed clothes every seven seconds, partaking in many frustrated attempts at masturbation; you know the story. It was just once of those nights where sleep was so tantalisingly near, with the blackness and the comfort surrounding me, yet my brain synapses were firing off at an alarming rate and my thoughts just wouldn’t stop, or slow down.

I lay there getting angrier and angrier, yet without really thinking about it my mind started to drift into some of the mind quieting meditation techniques that I’ve been learning over the past few months . Although I wasn’t sat on my little stool and that felt strange, and of course this wouldn’t be how I normally meditate, it felt like there was no harm trying.

Well, it worked a treat. I did “Zazen”, laid down, under the covers for only a few minutes and by the end of it I was so relaxed and peaceful. I felt big waves of calm wash over me, and I was soon like a different person. It was so nice just to have a technique in my armory that quietens the mind and stills the body. I watched the breath, my muscles relaxed and soon I was asleep.

In the end, I got six hours, much better than I feared I would. Now I feel great. I am ready to face another day of treadmills, phone calls and washing up.

I so often struggle with sitting. It is often so hard to focus and usually turns into a battle against all the bad habits engrained in me since birth. I sometimes look at my meditation stool and think of it as a war zone. It is nice then, be able to relax into practice and gain some real peace from it. Even if I was clutching a teddy!

Grandma

I have spent a lot of today thinking about old age. My grandma died at around about this time of year (such a dutiful granddaughter: I can’t remember the date/month/year), but I’m pretty sure it was in the spring, with the daffodils just about to die. So she has been playing on my mind for the last few days. She died in an old peoples home as the family couldn’t cope with her severe, aggressive dementia. Within eighteen months she went from being my lovely cuddly grandma to a husk of a woman. Being witness to the journey she underwent; the accelerated decaying process that left her unable to remember her own name or the name of her husband, children or, well… me… it was one of the most influential things that has happened to me. You just don’t forget shit like that. I was walking the walls of the city, and memories of her last months floated back into my conciousness: the smell of the pine air freshener that she had to breathe all day and the fish tank in the home's hallway with the moldy goldfish that swam in tiny circles. The guest’s "sign in" book that recorded our weekly visit and the tragedy of the fact that on more than one occasion there were no other names in the book to separate our Sunday signatures.

I have always hated old peoples homes. With a passion. I used to work at one, I know the shit that goes on there. People, good people who have given so much to their families and their communities are just left in high backed chairs to rot. There is no respect for the intelligence, individuality, history or needs of that person. Yes, they will get fed, even if it is the same tinned grapefruit or stewed prunes every day. Yes, they will be dressed, if they no longer can for themselves. Yes, they will get toileted once every couple of hours. Unless the staff forget, and then they have to physically sit in their own piss and shit for hours on end. In these places, there is no dignity. None. Most people in old peoples homes are not really people at all, in my experience, they are just empty shells waiting for their next 10 minute family visit, or if they have no relatives, they sit there and look forward to the day they finally stop breathing.

Now, call me silly if you will, but to me that’s no way for even one life to end. And for thousands upon thousands of these broken people to be abandoned, (not just by their families but by their communities), exploited of their hard earned life savings, neglected, drugged beyond recognition until they finally lose the will to live and croak…well….to me it is beyond dubious. This is abuse, plain and simple. Abuse of a whole generation, abuse of the most vulnerable group in our society. This is happening now, every day and it’s a fucking travesty. The friends and the relatives of people who have had to go through these systems and have seen our mums and dads, grandmas and granddads, friends and even enemies destroyed by them should be screaming about this abuse through megaphones outside polling stations and TV stations. We should be burning the places to the ground. We should be suing the corrupt owners of these establishments who bleed their residents dry. We should be going into the thick of it and helping those poor bastards who after all did much more than fight in the much toted wars; they raised us, read us stories, fed us home cooked meals, made sacrifice after sacrifice for both this country and our communities and our own families. This is the thanks they get? We should be so ashamed.

Yet I am not talking from a holier than thou perspective. My immediate family committed my grandma to one of these places. It made her worse and she died. We have that on our consciences forever. However, like many people in that situation we believed all the shit the system told us, that we couldn’t manage her at home, that she’d be better there, that she was a danger to herself and others, that she was unsafe in the community. We acted with the best of intentions. So do so many of us. But I think most of us know, I think in my heart of hearts we knew, that we acted with blood on our hands. Who hasn’t been to an old folks home and retched at the barely disguised smell of cabbage and piss? Who hasn’t noticed the woman in the corner with her dress on back to front and her teeth hanging out? And who hasn’t looked around at all the vacant expressions staring at countdown on the telly and thought; "shoot me, please, before I get to this stage"?

There is a cancer at the heart of our society. Maybe one of the reasons we’re all so obsessed with botox and anti wrinkle cream is because we know what’s waiting for us at the end of the line. It's not the thought of endless bingo nights and tepid institution food that creates the horror of the situation, it's the fact that these things are, in an old people's home, life's highlights.

News flash, people. We’re all gonna die. You won’t avoid it however hard you try. Science isn’t going to find a miracle cure, you’ll be pushing up daisies before you’ve even really had a chance to realise the implications of being alive. And when you do die you will probably be in a lot of pain and very scared. Dying well and dying bravely is one of the hardest things there is to do. Trust me on this. Wouldn’t it be nice, then, if our very last years were spent with our families, or if not with them, then in places that valued us and our wisdom, where we were treated with respect and compassion rather than as if we were nuisances at best, simple commodities at worst? Wouldn’t it be good if, even on our death beds, we were still being asked; "What can you teach us?" A dying person has access to some of life’s most potent wisdom, yet he is dosed up with morphine and goes screaming into the night surrounded by people who don’t know how to help, or have been taught, for professional reasons, not to get too involved.

My grandma died four years ago, almost to the day. I don’t know how yet but I don’t want her to have died in vain. I tried writing a play about it, one day I will try to write, or do, something else.

For today this little blog will have to do.

Body Image- (To Joan)

I loved your fat,
handfuls of it.
Breasts so big
they flattened me against
the wall in the hallway.
A scuffed knee,
a broken toy,
a sore throat;
all my worries
ran to your open arms.
Clasped to your chest:
rising and falling,
rising and falling.
Your heart beat
a tribal drum
that spoke to me
in ways your
stubby tongue
and cracked lips
could not.
Your clothes bursting
with rolls of blubber.
Wild eyes
and double chin.
No lipstick,

a faint moustache,

false teeth.

I had yet to encounter
Miss World on her
callous catwalk.
To me you were
woman,
old woman
in all her glory
and I was proud
to sit beside you
on the bus.

Bin Man

I have just come home from Sainsburies. It was a quarter to closing and the shop assistants were running round the shop putting reduced stickers on everything. I, like the rest of the soul sold middle class vultures was flocking around them around putting bargains galore in my basket. Lamb chops, hummus and poppy seed loaf. I am a fan of this time of day. Why pay full price when you can race in a most undignified manner against a sock sandeled man to the last pot of 85p guacamole? It is such fun.

I managed to score us some good grub for tea and was walking home listening to PJ Harvey swinging my leeks as I went, when I turned into the street that leads into ours. The sun had gone down, and the light was the sort of twilight that plays tricks on the eyes. So when I saw something moving in the corner of my vision, I didn’t pay it too much attention. But when I heard a rustling beyond the bushes I lifted my head to see a man, with a shaven head and combat boots on eating from a bin.

He look startled to see me (it is a quiet road) and I thought I saw a flicker of embarrassment on his face, but he wasn’t going to turn down food and he kept on eating. It was pizza. The box was soaked through with last night’s grease and the piece he was eating had somebody else’s ketchup on the crust.

I nearly burst into tears then and there. This kind of thing is to me like a body blow. Some people can block it out, some can look the other way. I can’t. I’m not saying I do anything much about it, except occasionally give guilt money for the big issue and the occasional cup of tea. I thought about the lamb chops in my bag, eight for only seventy five pence, and nearly gave them him. But, I thought, what good would raw meat be for someone who probably hasn’t even got a fork let alone an oven? I wondered about cash, to tell him to go and get a real pizza but I had none, and if I had run to the cash machine and given him a tenner, we wouldn’t have been able to go out tonight. So I just walked on by.

It is so wrong that someone, anyone, has to eat leftover food out of a bin, ever.

It is doubly wrong that in a city like York where people queue around the block for overpriced cucumber sandwiches at the numerous tea shops there is a man who for whatever reason can’t feed himself and we all look the other way.

And it is wrong, so terribly wrong that when I got home, I spread my guacamole on my poppy seed loaf and half an hour later had forgotten all about him.

The rules

1) I will not talk about anyone using their real, full name in this blog.

2) I will not post real life secrets, or things told to me in confidence, even under a pseudonym or using friends only posts. I have more respect for my friends and family than that.

3) This is a blog about me and my ideas. It is not a blog to analyse the people in my life, or a psychoanalytical dissection of my relationships. To me that stuff is personal. I am a people person, and they will be mentioned, but mainly as gateways to bigger ideas and issues rather than character studies in themselves.

4) I will endeavour to be accurate, and honest.

5) I will endeavour to write at least once a week.

The Importance of Exercise

Walking down the street yesterday, I tried to be mindful of my inner monologue. Not to try and still it, as I do in meditation, but just to watch it, as a passive observer might. So I walked and watched the thoughts, feelings, desires and reactions that welled up in me as I walked down a busy high street full of shoppers.

The things I learnt were numerous, and I am still reflecting on them now:

My mood doesn’t fluctuate daily. It doesn’t even fluctuate hourly. It fluctuates every few seconds! I’m not saying this is unusual, even though I do have a mood disorder. In fact I suspect it’s very common if not universal. Example: I would walk along and one second see a beautiful blossom tree. It would make me feel vital and great in the sunshine like everything is ok with the world. Then I would look to the ground and see a beggar sitting underneath it and feel a pang of guilt. I would start thinking about the nature of capitalism and feel a wave of despair and guilt for my own luxurious possessions. I walk on, then smell donuts and feel tempted and stimulated and then worry that I am obsessed with food and oh my god no wonder I’m so fat! Then I spend a few seconds feeling ugly and depressed until the sun comes out from behind a cloud and I get my devil may care vibe going on and I walk with a swagger. Soon, I’m back looking at the trees and feeling great, all in the time it takes from walking to one end of the street to another!

I know this isn’t a startling observation, but I was surprised at just how wildly my mood would oscillate, in such a short space of time. It made me realise how inconstant and unstable and conflicting everything that goes on in my head is. I really felt like my head was a tumble drier with lots of jumbled and fraying thoughts spinning around inside, only settling at random for a few seconds, and then spinning on again. By the end of the walk (only five minutes) I felt so out of control and dizzy I had to stop thinking about the whole thing and, interestingly, I put on a CD from my childhood to ground and comfort me.

The other thing I learnt about myself is just the sheer amount of comparison I do with other people, and snap judgements I make about them. My head, (despite my alleged radical leanings) is a very prejudiced place. I inwardly sneered at fat people, felt indignant at Polish people, gawped at a lesbian couple, crossed over the street to avoid a disabled person and got frustrated when an old dear spent more than two seconds crossing the road in front of me. These were more behavioral and emotional reactions than thoughts, but I was being very mindful, and I noticed myself doing them. Sometimes I felt guilty, but mostly not. Why then the inconsistency? I profess to follow a philosophy which encourages equal love for all sentient beings, and politically I have been spouting left wing polemics for as long as I’ve been able to talk, yet I’m embarrassed to interact with a person in a wheelchair? As they say on the net: “WTF?”

These observations distressed me, as you can well imagine. I’ve been feeling unsettled ever since. I have known on an intellectual level for a long time that everyone is prejudiced to a greater or lesser extent. Intolerance is subtle and camouflaged and it is often easier to say you’re not prejudiced than to actually act that way. I remember the argument I had with a close friend in my first year at university when they said everyone is racist, and I was so venomously opposed to that idea at first, but over time I realised the truth in what they were saying. Still, to do the mindfulness exercise and to discover that nearly 7 years after discovering this hard hitting truth, your mind is still as fear filled and prejudiced as ever, it’s a bit depressing. Yes I know all about media influence and social pressures, and the fact that no one is immune, but still.

And then I got on to realising that these snap judgements could lie at the very heart of human misery. Because after all, if I’m walking down the street calling a random person a fat crazy old bitch in my head, or a terrorist, or stupid, or ugly, or a slag, or whatever, then deep down, rightly or wrongly I assume that some, if not all people are doing the same to me. After all, I’m a fairly content, happy and loving individual. I cried at Forest Gump, laughed at all the ironic bits of peep show and read the guardian! What must daily mail readers be walking along thinking to themselves?! (Half kidding) How can you really trust people, relate to people, fully love and open your heart to them when a simple walk down the street is steeped in this deep well of judgment, fear, paranoia and suspicion?

Then I started thinking about my friends, about my family. I started to think about trust, and about how much you can or can’t do it. I mean, if you can’t trust a smiling stranger not to be thinking you’re a fat ugly scrubber, then how can you really, truly trust anyone? When I reflect, I can honestly say, there’s a lot I don’t say to my friends and family that I could, or I should but I won’t. I like peace. I like a quiet life. I don’t think it’s my place. I don’t want to hurt them. I’m too proud. I’m rubbish in conflict.

So of course, it begs the question. What are they all really thinking about me??? If there’s a lack of genuine trust and no ones got your back, then it logically follows that they just might stab you in it.

All this seeks to divide us and I think with all the shit in the world this paranoia certainly has us conquered.

This morning I was awash with mistrust. I still am to a certain extent I don’t believe in tying up loose ends that are still loose for the sake of a good yarn. But amongst all the doubt, the questioning comes two things to the forefront of my mind that are both challenging me and giving me peace:

1) Matt. 7:1 "Judge not, lest thee be judged." Somehow to me this is a command, a reassurance and a solution. If I can concentrate and stamp out this behaviour in myself then maybe I will not feel the judgment of others, both real and imagined weighing so heavily on my heart.

2) The Buddha’s noble eightfold path holds the promise of the eradication of suffering for its followers. Could its claims be true?

It’s a sunny day and I’m going to go out for a walk. This time though, I’ll be taking my walkman with me and blasting away that bloody inner monologue. I’m not saying it wasn’t a useful exercise, and it has thrown up valuable questions but I find there is a time where a little mindfulness goes a long way.

A Fun Kind of Introduction.

1. I am left handed
2. I never wear matching socks, its not a superstition, it’s a trademark
3. I learnt saxophone and piano up to grade 8. Its one of my biggest regrets that I have let my music slide so much over the last few years.
4. I can sing quite well.
5. I wear mostly charity shop clothes, mainly because I can’t stand going in high street clothes stores, they makes me feel really creepy *shudder*
6. My favourite football team is Sheffield Wednesday. They’re a bit rubbish. But I stick with them out of loyalty and nostalgia.
7. My favourite flavour crisp is woucester (sp?) sauce.
8. I bite my fingernails to the point that they sometimes bleed. and my toenails.
9. I am obsessive and have had lots of crazes over the years from sea monkeys to heavy metal.
10. I have hazel eyes
11. I can’t remember names of/recognise actors. ever.
12. I can remember names of/recognise musicians.
13. I have frequent epiphanies.
14. I am easily amused
15. I flirted with paganism aged 17. My Christian parents threw a fit. I never went back.
16. The place I felt most at home in was Jerusalem.
17. I love long walks by the river.
18. I’m scared of the dentist.
19. I have really bad eyesight.
20. The first album I ever bought was micheal jacksons “Thriller”
21. I still have a soft spot for it, even now.
22. I have big feet for a girl. (size 8)
23. I once swam a mile. (my crowning sporting achievement)
24. I am a cat person who has never owned a cat.
25. On a bad day, I get scared off by things I think will be too difficult.
26. I would love to be a dominatrix for a day,
27. I am more naturally a submissive.
28. Death terrifies me.
29. I love jam on toast.
30. I ask a lot of questions.
31. In social situations, I often dislike talking about myself (I make up for this online J)
32. I blush easily.
33. I like camping, especially when it rains.
34. My favourite tipple is whiskey or red wine
35. I still don’t think of myself as an adult.
36. I have voted twice. Both times for the green party.
37. I really like petrol stations at night.
38. I consider myself a feminist, despite the bad press that we get.
39. Strangely, I find men easier to befriend than women.
40. I have many phobias.
41. Good writing gives me a mixed feeling of pleasure and jealousy.
42. I used to have a hospital radio show when I was 17. I pumped rock music onto the geriatric ward on a Saturday night. I don’t think anybody ever listened but I had a great time doing it.
43. I have a sweet tooth
44. I am a plus size. The two aren’t entirely unrelated.
45. I am devoted to my popple- the soft toy I have had since I was 5 years old. There is a big part of me that thinks she is alive. We have long conversations. She sleeps between me and owen.
46. My grandmother died of Alzheimer’s
47. I don’t have a favourite colour/ book/film/album etc. I’m not that decisive.
48. I smoked cigarettes for ten years until I quit my 35 a day habit three years ago. I used nicotine patches. I never want to smoke again.
49. I have never had an operation.
50. I used to wear braces on my teeth. They hurt like hell.
51. I was lead singer in a band for three years.
52. This is my 10th “website” since I was 15. I generally get bored of them and they eventually get taken down.
53. My parents are both music teachers.
54. I keep trying to learn guitar- but don’t seem to be a natural
55. We have over 500 CDs in our collection- arranged alphabetically
56. The name of my first pet was Jamie- she was a hamster
57. I have seen three dead bodies in my life
58. I was addicted to marijuana. For a while, I lived for it. I stopped after a bad episode and haven’t smoked for four years.
59. I have eaten sheeps brain and tripe.
60. In the last eight years I have lived in 8 different houses
61. I hate moving house
62. I like my curries sweet and creamy.
63. I periodically attempt to keep a journal. I’ve never managed more than 6 months in one go.
64. I can’t dance.
65. I have a terrible memory.
66. My favourite pizza topping is seafood.
67. I am the most untypical leo you’ll ever meet.
68. I prefer to wear trainers rather than shoes.
69. I love jokes and quotations but can never remember them at the appropriate times.
70. I find it difficult to walk anywhere without being plugged into my Mp3 player
71. I have been married for two years, almost to the day.
72. Like any good British Citizen I am totally and helplessly addicted to tea.
73. I am a republican. I hate the monarchy and all it stands for.
74. Our flat has four rooms. It’s very old, built in the 16th century. .
75. I try to meditate daily.
76. The Sims is my favourite computer game. Although sometimes I find it horrendously depressing.
77. I just love the internet.
78. I find online socialising much easier than real life get togethers.
79. I guess that makes me a geek.
80. I used to be an insomniac. Now I sleep all the time.
81. The phrase that made me blush the most when someone used it to describe me is “still waters run deep.”
82. I read a lot, and I read fast.
83. The most true thing I have heard today is “you’re gonna reap just what you sow” in Lou Reed’s “perfect day”.
84. I believe we are all deeply brainwashed
85. Every day I try to get a little bit closer to obtaining a free mind
86. I believe life begins at birth.
87. I generally get very disturbed by horror films.
88. I’m very sensitive.
89. The newspaper I read is “the Guardian”
90. I tend to idealise ancient Greece.
91. I used to be obsessed with radio phone in shows.
92. I have a bad habit of making unhealthy friendships.
93. I like listening to music whilst reading the lyrics.
94. I haven’t been to a gig for over a year.
95. My worst flaw- I hate conflict and I try to be everyone’s friend. I want everybody to be happy so sometimes find it hard to tell the truth.
96. My love is intense, generous, loyal and passionate.
97. I have a dirty mind.
98. I snort when I laugh really hard.
99. Doing this list took me a week.
100. I think too much.