KAREN THE PSYCHIC TERRORIST

Okay, so here's the thing...

We're doing the shoo-wow wander around the Soul Space Holistic Fair at Kloofzicht Lodge today - Karen and I, mingling with the masseuses, Tibetan singing bowl ringers, overpriced organic and vegan food vendors, soothsayers, transcendental practitioners and the like.

And it has to be said that the 1 hour neck, back and shoulders massage augmented my mood somewhat to a high degree of receptivity as far as the good vibes were concerned.

The music was funky, the wafting potpourri of Indian incense intoxicating, the Neo dancers rich in variant somatotypes and the ubiquitous hippy fashionistas predictably flared and shaggy, their beatific smiles punctuating the backdrop like mobile Woodstock wallpaper.

Karen, as is her wont, booked a session with a couple of space cadets aka psychic practitioners, the first appointment necessitating the scheduling of the second as the "specialist" in question took the opportunity to promote himself and his claimed skillset rather than offer some otherworldly insight into Karen's current life situation - the intended agenda as far as she was concerned.

A tad disgruntled, she booked another session with a different practitioner, this time a member of the fairer sex and one seemingly more willing to provide the promised service.

It has to be asked: if these people are indeed gifted and can see beyond the veil as it were, then surely they must have an inkling as to the expectations of the client seeking insight from them? And it doesn't take a clairvoyant to work out that a potential client isn't going to pay you a fee to hear a whole lot of promotional marketing fluff about yourself and if they do think or believe such a thing, they must surely be delusional?

It may however be that at some deeper, subconscious level, my lovely wife wasn't really seeking those specific insights and decided subliminally to sabotage the outcomes. If that was the case then it worked underwhelmingly well with the first self-proclaimed savant, however, the best was yet to come.

The lady lined up for the second session had agreed to see Karen on the strength of a good-natured urging from her husband and manager who convinced the good lady to forego her afternoon tea break and fit in an extra reading. 

So resolved, Karen pitched up at the surprisingly vacant booth at the prescribed time only to be informed that said soothsayer had been whisked off by a medical team having tumbled down the stairs fracturing both of her arms in the process! 

"Should she not have had some precognition of this event?" says I.

"I dunno," my wife replies as we head off for some exotic smelling tea inevitably devoid of any actual flavour. 

As we sat sipping the overpriced subtle (read: tasteless) brew I was certain I spotted a broken-limbed homunculus reposing in Karen's handbag or was this vision the result of the odd flavoured mushrooms I had with lunch....? 

I might have to ask the forest divas to confirm this one way or the other...

Namasté 

Extract from The First Book of PRANA (Parts 1 - 4)

Jack Tyler (recently rendered absent from control of his own being albeit remaining as a dispassionate observer from within himself), witnesses Lucifer (Lew), now in control of his body, spend the first night with Jack's wife, Jemma...

The road trip was upon me earlier than I’d anticipated. If I’d been in possession of my human emotions I had a strong feeling I’d have been throwing up at Lew’s saccharin sentimentality. Thankfully I was spared the emotive aspects of his performance with Jemma but one thing he did manage to secure, the sly dog, was her blessing for my road trip. By the time he’d finished licking her toes, drooling where I’d never drooled before and generally trading foreplay for grovelling, he’d pretty much won her over. She saw me in a whole new light. It was a light I was certain would flicker and fade when I regained control of my entire body sometime in the future. However, it was a performance worthy of praise from the casual observer, if one had to measure it upon physical performance alone. No small coincidence that Lew behaved like a veritable demon. What transpired could hardly have been construed as lovemaking but it was not without passion. He literally fucked her from one end of the bedroom to the other, over the bath, in the bath, against the dressing table, straddling the ottoman, on the bed, under the bed and finally half in and half out of the dressing room. It was exhausting merely observing such a mercurial bout of shagging. But inexplicably he had my good wife eating out of his hands by the end of the evening.

The disaster of Kate’s botched pantomime performance was nothing but a distant memory after Jemma’s fourth orgasm. I was certain I could feel my manly organ increasing in length and girth beyond its usual capacity and tried vainly to thrust this thought into Lew’s maddened lust-filled brain as rapidly as he thrust my penis in and out of Jemma’s receptive quim. Intercession was, however, useless, which was as diametrically opposed to his prowess as was possible. Actions did indeed speak louder than words or, in this case, thoughts.

I didn’t know if I’d ever given my wife an orgasm in all the time I’d known her. She went through the motions of grunting, gasping and panting at all the right times but nothing compared with the twisting, shrieking frenzy I witnessed this night. There was no faking this. Her misty-eyed devotion in the afterglow paid testament to that. Her fawning acceptance of my need to forge into the regional wilderness in pursuit of riches for our suddenly idyllic marriage nearly made me puke. I would have, given the capacity. As it was I watched helplessly as my body lit a cigar and polluted my lungs with its pungent smoke. Protesting that I was a non-smoker was useless particularly as I didn’t really give a monkey’s anyway. Lew sat in the darkened lounge wearing my bathrobe, smoking my guest cigars and sipping on a Wild Turkey, feet tapping in time to Hotel California.

Somewhere amid the steamy, miasmic aftermath of sexual madness, in a twist of Biggie Best linen, Jemma slumbered like a Cheshire cat. There should have been something deeply disturbing about this, I thought. But for the life of me I just couldn’t feel it.

The First Book Of PRANA - coming soon... watch this space...

FALL AT YOUR FEET...

Some things in life are just incredible through the power of song...
this is one of those things...

FACEBOOK VACATION....

It's time to take a break from Facebook for a little while and get some real work done...
It's unlikely I'll see what people are up to this week and I feel strangely liberated.
Later, folks....

SEMANTICS

So let me get this straight:

When someone writes out: I (with a heart symbol) something....

That means literally: I LOVE something - right?

And when they don't have the means to create a heart symbol, they write out: I HEART something...

Why the fuck don't they just write: I LOVE something - which is what they meant to say in the first place?

I think I am going insane! 

<3

In Memoriam - Alan Yule and Margaret Sinclair Murray

Today is an evocative day on so many levels.

It's a day when I am more contemplative than usual which, for me, is often introspection overload.

But that's a process involving catharsis if you allow it to simply be.

I shall meditate on this day and, like some would have it, relink to the events it commemorates through the wonder of the hidden energies into which we can connect in those magical quiet moments.

Yes, there is magic - you only have to look for it. It's there.

You see, today is the anniversary of my father's birthday and I have no idea how old he would have been in corporeal years had he still been alive today - that's my sister, Norma's department. Girls know that kind of stuff, boys just don't - we're wired differently. He would've been somewhere in his eighties is all I really know.

But I never forget his birthday - how can I - he was my dad. He was the guy who took me to my first football match, always seemed so much larger than life when I was a wee boy and who had that irresistable dad smell - all Old Spice, Embassy filters and - well - dad. A safe, strong place to be. In my dad's arms.

He was the one who put the food on the table, introduced our family to the exotic cuisine he'd experienced as a distant voyager in the Royal Navy. Small children eating prawns and snails or paella wasn't exactly the order of the day in Portobello Edinburgh in the 60's - I doubt if it's the order of the day even now. He was the one who found it more challenging to break barriers in his professional career than he did geographically - he pioneered our relocation from Scotland to South Africa in the 70's rather than fuck around between Edinburgh and Glasgow. If you're going to make a change make it intercontinental why doncha! And I think of that today as we too are poised on another intercontinental excursion - Australia set to become our new home.

And that's where my dad eventually settled and where he died...my mum too.

My mum. That pint-sized firebrand who ran on laughter and goodwill. The woman who kept white spirit vinegar in the fridge much to my horror when it was mistakenly yet capaciously quaffed by a dessicated, hungover son (almost killing him in the process) when I stayed with her on one of my many visits. The elbow wielding, jumper-knitting, people-loving lady who sang to us in the sweetest voice or entertained us with silly rhymes and always encouraged us to be the best people we could ever be.

Diminutive of stature - gigantic in heart.

But even more significantly, as if separation, divorce and bitterness could keep my parents apart, my mother - mum- had other ideas.

Yes, they had been together for over thirty years (seems like a lifetime but isn't really that long when you are in your own special relationship) and they had drifted apart, South Africa and its man's-world ethos playing a potent role in that outcome so they had decided to try another continent to repair the rift. But Australia didn't have that capacity and nor, it turned out, did they.

But we always knew that despite the trials and acrimony that may have recycled throughout their relationship that dad was always the love of mum's life. Even when they were much older and apart, separated by denial, state borders and new relationships - they were always together in spirit.

To the degree that my mum chose to depart this world on his birthday. Yes, she joined him today somewhere, somehow because she knew he knew that they still had that love - the same love we could feel from them as children where unspokenly we had been given a gauge in our lives for what the real thing should feel like.

And I have been blessed enough to have found that.

Thus, on the day that my dad was born and my mum chose to join him in their eternal tryst - I give thanks to them and pay homage for the joy, the laughter, the lessons and most of all for the love.

My tears today are for sadness and for grace and for you.

I miss you both so very much...

NOTHING COMPARES TO THIS...

I was tempted to write something about this stupid situation between Myley Cyrus and Sinead O'Connor and then thought to myself: what a load of bollocks - as if there isn't enough hype and intaking of breath about it already - far too much, in fact.

What is perhaps noteworthy that everyone has missed: they're both HIV+ 

That is, suffering from Hype Induced Vanity

Get a fucking life, girls!