LAKE DISTRICT DHARMA

It was the 2/10/95.

Bobby and his Mum and Dad were sitting in a pub in Keswick in the Lake District. Bobby was drinking a pint of “Sneck Lifter”. A “sneck” is either a word for money or a word for the catch on a door. Bobby’s Mum was discussing her time as a nurse. She was discussing the case of a 9-year-old amputee that she had met. A train had rolled over his leg. He used to sit in the hospital bed and pretend to saw it off. He then became a keen football and tennis player - his false leg providing him with a certain mobility. She added that the ages between 9 and 12 is the worst phase in someone’s life to suffer an amputation.

Bobby Rewind and his Mum and dad ate chips out of a basket. His Mum was drinking a rum and orange. Bobby’s Dad was drinking a brown and mild.

They discussed the growing irrelevance of parliamentary democracy and the imminent and long awaited death of the ruling Tory Party’s spite and stupidity and the Labour Party’s contentious claim to having a policy that will return the youth to full employment. Bobby and his parents detested the Tory Party. Tory Party officials were some of the only people that made Bobby feel homicidal. He felt that fantasies about killing them could be considered as a form of psychic defence. As for the modern “Labour” Party - they had their heads right up their own arse-holes. How many of the youth wanted a job under the conditions that this society had to offer? The same greedy businesses will continue to under-employ and under-pay. How many of the youth even wanted a job? How many of their friends and families have had their perceptions of a stable society shat on by Thatcherism and mean behaviour? Who wanted a job? What kind of job? For who? Doing what? For how much? For how long? Who do Labour mean by youth?

These days it seemed that people were less convinced about dutifully serving a corporation, an hierarchical place of work or even a service-based industry for the whole span of their lives. These days the backlash against poor working conditions and bad practice was to look for variety in one’s life. In fact the effect of mass unemployment had shot its creators in the foot. So many people had been forced to drop out that many didn’t want to be dropped back in. They had adapted to their enforced spare time by filling it with things that were usually more interesting than the job they had had. The difference in income between getting by on initiative and the national insurance contributions people were owed (which was paid out of the pitiful Income Support and Job Seekers Allowance programs) and the income offered by the few jobs available was not worth sacrificing your freedom for.

On their way back to the cottage they were staying in Bobby and his parents drove past an Italian restaurant in Kendal.

Inside the restaurant Jack Spinetti tied his yellow and orange cravat around his unshaven neck and adjusted his black peaked cap. As he lit up his long thin roll-up and inhaled deeply on the smoke he reflected on the last hour. The tagliatelle had slid down his throat and the clink of wineglasses had provided the exclamation mark to end the deal. Tomorrow the shipment of squeaky, plastic, purple dragons would be in. They float, they grin and they sit in the bath or sink.... chained to the plug.

His sample dragon sat on the restaurant table where he had accidentally left it as he walked out of the building. The spirit of the Tibetan lama entered it as easily as a post-A.I.D.S. penis slides into the unrolling prophylactic. On spying the glass of Italian white wine on the table the dragon inched his way forward. He swung his plug into the cool, shimmering liquid. With a minimum of mess and a maximum of efficiency he withdrew the plug and through levitation and telekinesis brought it to rest on the tablecloth. Bending his plastic toy torso the lama slurped at the eleven per cent fruity vintage from the up-turned stopper come rubbery drinking vessel.

Louis Alvarado, the young, gay waiter, could have sworn he heard Tibetan chanting in the distance as he lay slumped in an alcoholic daze over the restaurant bar. Why had Michael left him? He hadn’t always squeezed the toothpaste tube in the middle! Hadn’t his poetry been enough? He unfolded the last piece he had written....

“AROUND THE CORNER THE VIEW IS WAITING,
AROUND THE CORNER LIBERTY SHINES,
AROUND THE CORNER EQUALITY BECKONS,
AROUND THE CORNER THE THIRD WORLD DINES,
AROUND THE CORNER POWER DISSOLVES,
AROUND THE CORNER THE MARKET FALLS,
AROUND THE CORNER ROYALTY FOLDS,
AROUND THE CORNER NO PRISON WALLS,
AROUND THE CORNER LOOK BACK AND SEE,
THE STRUGGLING FACES OF YOU AND ME.”

Louis Alvarado had remembered with glee that sunny afternoon on the Latterbarrow hillside when, after a rather intimate embrace, Michael had ribbed him about his penchant for traversing the dim passage. He had used the term “dim passage” with such affection and wit that they had both assumed that their love would last forever. Back at the bar Louis opened his eyes and through blood-shot slits he espied the purple, plastic dragon squatting on the bar.

“Good afternoon.” it said with what can only be described as a grin on its palitoy features.

“Ga!” said Louis.

The dragon continued.... “I am looking for the high priestess Mont Mont Vinsita.”

At that moment five Japanese shoe-sales people came in from the mist-enshrouded alleyway outside. Fresh from their mountainous ascent through the snow on Harterfell and an impromptu game of tag along the banks of Haweswater they had developed an appetite for pizza. This erstwhile restaurant in Kendal had been recommended to them by a hooded figure next to a tarn filled with iridescent turquoise water. The figure (little known to them) was, in fact, a strangely benign barrow wight whose ancestors used to suck the blood out of medieval ramblers and use the remains as mobiles in their demonic barrows. This ghostly spirit had had a visitation from a high priestess in a dream. She had instructed him to direct the Japanese tourists to the aforementioned eating house.

The purple, plastic dragon spun around immediately sensing the workings of Mont Vinsita’s mind. Louis tapped the dragon on the back of its head and it fell over. The Tibetan lama was gone. He’d returned to his cave and rejoined his companions in the mountains of Tibet. Louis Alvarado wondered about the DDT effects of eleven per cent wine and put his supposed hallucination down to hyper-sensitivity brought on by the emotional trauma of his domestic life. He cheered himself up when he got home. He put pen to paper and realised that he could still write poems about positive things....

“THE GRIZEDALE SCULPTURES, WOODED AND BOLD,
CONFIRMING THAT ART SHOULD NEVER BE SOLD,
IN SITU IN GRACEFUL INTENT AND INTENSE,
EPIC AND TOWERING, THE FANTASIST’S SENSE,
AMBLESIDE FALLS AS SUN DAPPLES LEAF,
KIRKSTONE PASS AS CLOUDS SWIRL BENEATH,
THE WEIR AT HAWESWATER AND THE KENDAL RAIN,
ITALIAN FOOD AND THE AESTHETE’S WINE STAIN,
AS CLOUDS PART AND SUNLIGHT SHINES ON US AGAIN,
WE KNOW THE WIDE VALUE OF A RURAL REFRAIN.”

The high priestess Mont Mont Vinsita considered her home in the Tibetan mountains. A cave of all the delightful things she had accrued through her years of travel. Not material acquisitions the way a politician understands them but objects that trigger the memory and imagination. Keys with which to unlock the doors to creativity.

Some of these keys included the following....

1) A hand-carved stone eyeball with a purple gemstone as the pupil.

2) The skull of a Tibetan wise man who donated it to her on his deathbed as a result of the blowjob Mont Vinsita had just given him.

3) A cow bell.

4) A book of poetry by the New York Rapper M.C. Mucus Membrane.

5) The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

6) The Communist Manifesto.

7) A copy of the newspaper “Class War” that she bought off of Ian Bone (its originator) on an Anti-Nazi rally in Southeast London in the early 1990’s.

8) A Parisian parasol that doubled up as a swordstick.

9) A pipe for smoking jimson weed that she obtained from a Mexican Indian who was meditating on the central reservation of a dual carriageway just outside of Mexico City.

10) A packet of “Featherlite” condoms.

11) A “Mickey Mouse” watch.

12) A pair of handcuffs that she had stolen off of a policeman on a suffragette march in London in 1912.

13) An eighth of an ounce of Moroccan pollen (marijuana).

14) A pulsar rifle from the Cornish uprisings of 3012.

15) A cuddly toy.

16) A Sunsnake c.d.

17) A copy of two poems written during the summer solstice of 2000 A.D. One was written by Bobby Rewind and the other was written by his partner Shiva.

Bobby’s poem went like this....

“SOLSTICE DAY TO SOLSTICE NIGHT.
THE ENERGY TO COMBAT STRIFE,
CUTS THE AIR JUST LIKE A KNIFE,
IT TRAVELS SHARP AND TRAVELS HARD,
IT TEARS IT UP IN YOUR BACK YARD,
RA DEFINED AND SOL INSPIRED,
NEVER QUIET NEVER TIRED,
TRANSFERENCE POINTS AT RAVES AND GIGS,
WITCHES RAP WITH WOLVES AND PIGS,
GATE-WAYS OPEN GATE-WAYS CLOSE,
WE MUST MAINTAIN OUR ZEN REPOSE,
DIRECT THE ENERGY,
DIRECT ACTION NOT LETHARGY,
RIGHT ON FIGHT ON IS OUR REFRAIN,
TO STOP THE WAR-LIKE MARCHING BRAIN,
SMELL THE FLORA RUNNING RIOT,
DIG THE BIRD-SONG DIG THE QUIET,
DIG THE EARTH AND DIG THE SOIL,
PLANT THOSE TREES OUR MORTAL COIL,
LET THEM SUCK THE WATER UP,
RECLAIM THE GRAIL OUR MOTHER’S CUP,
STOP THE FLOODING PLANT MORE TREES,
DON’T LET THE DESERT BE DISEASE,
LET THE PLANTS SOAK UP THE LIGHT,
FROM SOLSTICE DAY TO SOLSTICE NIGHT.”

Shiva’s poem went like this....

“HOT CENTURY STEAM.”

Chorus

“ENDLESS DREAMS,
CENTURY STREAMS,
CENTURY STEAM,

HOT SOLSTICE NIGHTS,
SUMMERSSS FLIGHT.”

“WE STAY UP BEYOND OUR HOURS,
WE STAY UP,

Return to chorus.

The high priestess gently blew on her bagpipes. The lamas who meditated in caves nearby always knew what time of day to put parsley in their ears.

As she strengthened the exhalation of air and flexed her epiglottis a low rasping note crept out of the horns. As it rose in pitch it built to an exasperating crescendo. Twenty lamas ejaculated simultaneously even though they now had the palms of their hands tightly rapt around the parsley. It was a daily thrill for her. She was always punctual and they could not stop their excitement even though they knew the exact moment it would happen. She often masturbated just for good measure.

A moment or so later they heard the sound of her laughter echo around their prayer-mats. Ramansathpur, aged eighty-two, had the most intense ejaculation. As the semen dripped onto his bald head from the stone roof above he looked in astonishment at his penis.

With the sex-magick complete Mont Mont Vinsita was able to astrally project herself into a passing eagle and fly south to the Nepalese border. Here she picked a bushel of skunkweed and flew it back to her cave. She was glad skunk had been introduced to the area.

In the cave she let the eagle take its body away in search of prey. She put some weed into the Mexican pipe and lit it. After two or three drags on the cool, browny-green smoke she went of into a dream.

She dreamt that she worked as a long-distance lorry driver who rented a small council flat in Newcastle. The Hedworth estate was an amiable enough place. The Boldon Colliery had been shut since the miner’s strike of the mid-nineteen eighties. During the strike Mont Vinsita had knocked out a riot cop when she’d seen him club an eleven year old boy over the head. The police (many of whom were, in fact, Dragoon Guards) had gone into a frenzy when they were given the order to charge on horseback. They had thrashed mercilessly this way and that with their long truncheons. Mont Mont Vinsita had grabbed one from his steed and kicked him in the face right under his visor has he fell. As his helmet had spun of she followed with a punch that would have knocked Mike Tyson out cold. The copper went down like a sack of unpeeled potatoes. She picked up the eleven-year-old boy but he was dead!

The mass media networks wouldn’t trust her story so she assassinated the Prime Minister with a crossbow bolt right between the eyes.

Mont Mont Vinsita opened her eyes suddenly.

She grinned.

Alternative dimensions could often be glimpsed at with the right mixture of psychoactive substances and this always provided an interesting environment in which to meditate.

She grinned and then blinked.

When she opened her eyes she was standing in Powis Street in Woolwich in Saaaarrrff Eeeeeeest Lundun. It was 2/10/99 and it was 25 years to the day that the first Macmurderers restaurant opened in this very street.

Mont Vinsita had a bag of cement over her shoulder.

Bobby rewind was chatting to a demonstrator holding one end of a banner which read “MacMurder”.

Mont Mont Vinsita could hear their conversation. The gentleman Bobby was talking to was in his sixties. Bobby was telling him about his mate Donald the Druid.... “Yeh Donald planted some hash plants in their window boxes a couple of years ago and they grew to quiet a height before these bastards realised. Loadsa’ people saw them”.

“Maybe someone nicked ‘em” said the protester.

“Naw!” said Bobby.... “MacWankers took all the window boxes away when they realised they had been infiltrated. It’s quite ironic they have the same contempt for window boxes that they have for wild vegetation! If they can’t control it they destroy it!”

“True true....” agreed the man.

“Anyway I’m going home now to right an anti-Macmurderers poem to celebrate anti-Macmurderers protest.

“Good for you.” said the man.

Shiva and Bobby’s council flat was a short walk away from Powis Street.

Macmurderers had attempted to draw local attention to their twenty five years occupation of Powis street with a brass band playing American military marching tunes but the demo’ had set up in front of the overweight tunesmiths and even managed to block out the sight of bunches of Macdonals balloons. They were only playing for money and the banner obscuring them from view had actually made their performance more relaxed owing to the act that they felt less conspicuous. None of them seemed to have the corporate zeal that Macmurderers tried to promote.

Bobby dashed off while the muse was still with him and Mont Mont Vinsita walked into the toilets of the fast food temple to defoliation and animal cruelty. She passed into both the ladies and the gentlmen’s for she had employed the Celtic “Glamour” (The art of going unseen). Whilst in each cubicle she poured cement into each latrine. The nature of the cement she used meant that it would congeal quickly and all manner of flooding and disruption would follow. She chuckled at her piece of “Direct Action”.

When Bobby got home he scribbled down his verse. He couldn’t help thinking of bags of cement while he did this and put it down to the fact that he must have been more stoned than he realised.

His poem went like this....

“What’s wrong with Macmurderers?
Besides promoting unhealthy food,
What’s wrong with Macmurderers?
Besides killing rainforest wood.
What’s wrong with Macmurderers?
Besides obstructing the food requirements of poor countries,
What’s wrong with Macmurderers?
Besides causing starvation,
What’s wrong with Macmurderers?
Besides mistreating cattle which they regard merely as stock,
What’s wrong with Macmurderers?
Besides wasting land that could produce enough grain to prevent
starvation in the countries that they exploit,
What’s wrong with Macmurderers?
Besides perpetuating the myth
That mass slaughter and factory farming is humain.
What’s right with Macmurderers?”

Mont Vinsita jumped Head-first into one of the sinks in the men’s toilets and disappeared down the plughole as easily as water.

She resurfaced through the spout of an ancient oil lamp in her cave. The oil lamp had been a gift from a rather insistent Jinnee who said that since he had been freed from it he had no desire to see it around his Glaswegian council flat in the middle of the twentieth century. The ifrit had told the high priestess that the Glaswegian pub scene of the 1950’s was where he would reside when he wasn’t out stuffing vizier’s sons down toilets in China. In Glasgow he thought he’d be safe from the bidding of incontinent Persian fishermen who sought to trap the likes of him in jam jars. Mont Mont Vinsita put his attitude down to the stresses incurred from his line of work. He then corrected her and said it shouldn’t be seen as work but as a life-style he did admit that his Glaswegian premises afforded him much needed breaks.

She rushed to the mouth of the cave and looked out. She sighed with relief when she realised that the view was that of the Himalayas. It was a time when the snows on the lower slopes were thawing. The promise of water was luring sheep down from the cliffs. The rivers and lakes could be dangerous places this time of year. As the high priestess stretched her mind across the ridges she sensed the remains of a blue sheep near a gurgling brook. The feast was over and a great grey cat was moving off.

It was the late Spring of 2000 AD and fleeting glimpses of greenery swept into Mont Vinsita’s mind as she scanned the countryside from her cave mouth. Crows hit another carcass that had been left by some big cat. An Himalayan griffin sat on another carcass nearby. There was a sense of feasting in the air. Sheep were tucking into grass as if it were some feverish addiction. Since Himalayan griffins were the largest and heaviest of the air-born scavengers here a golden eagle and a king vulture stood by and watched in anticipation of their role in the pecking order. Some bearded vultures arrived. They outnumbered the other birds and quickly took control of the carcasses. They flew off quickly carrying bones away in order to shatter them against rocks to reveal the marrow within.

Mont Mont Vinsita stretched her mind further and swept by some crops dependent on the melt-water from the thaw. This was marmot country and they prepared themselves for the height of summer when they breathe, breed and fatten. Of course some get dug out of their burrows by snow leopards and bears. The high priestess noticed some bar headed geese as they made their incredible journey over the mountains. She also noticed a black necked crane as it flew over some wild asses on the flat planes near some more lakes. The ground thundered with the sound of their hooves as they enjoyed ardent chases with each other. When the females are in season a male can be given the run-around for a whole day.

Mont Vinsita stretched her mind to Ladack which lies in the rain shadow north of the Himalayas. She then swept her mind down to the mouth of the River Ganges. A Sadhu was meditating. Mont Mont Vinsita’s passing (albeit without physical form) caused him to spontaneously ejaculate. She then travelled back towards her cave and wondered at the carpets of green forest that were now running between the peaks above 7000 meters. In winter these forests lie deep in snow but in summer they burst into colour and activity. Rhododendrons were spreading everywhere. A rainbow wave of colours was sweeping up the mountainsides.

She loved her home!

She then disappeared up the spout of the oil lamp and resurfaced through the spout of a teapot in Rasputeeeen’s living room in Plumstead in Saaaarrrff Eeeeeast Lundun. It was June 2000.

She was still using the Celtic “Glamour” and as with her presence in Powis Street she had astrally projected and left her true physical form at home. This, of course, did not prevent her from manipulating physical objects in the places into which she astrally projected. Since her projection afforded her the ability to project a physical image she still had need of the “Glamour”. She kept the physical image option open when dealing directly with human affairs.

Bobby had just arrived at Rasputeeeens.

“Man am I getting pissed off with this plastercast! I can’t tie my shoelaces without fear of loosing a tooth! I can’t even chop fucking potatoes!”

Rasputeeeen just looked at him. Bobby continued.... “It nearly turns into the bloody “Shining” if I try and chop fucking potatoes with just my left fucking hand! Fucking fog lights! All over a pair of fucking fog lights! So this is the result of zero tolerance policing! I ask why my girlfriend can’t come with me and those cunts break my fucking wrist! Wankers! So much for trying to pass the attitude test! They’ll be fucking lucky if I’m ever polite to them again! Wankers! And look at you! They fucking broke your elbow man! You put your life on the line for a mate, they break your elbow and then charge you with assault! What you did that night was the single most unselfish act I have ever seen you perform! Those ratcuntmotherfuckingpolicepig bastards wouldn’t understand friendship like that if it dropped on ‘em like a fucking “Warner Brothers” cartoon fucking ‘undred ton fucking weight!”

Rasputeeeen stood there with his arm in a sling. Bobby wasn’t in a sling but his right arm was in a psychedelic cast with a six-cornered star interlaced with purple pyramids. Coiling purple tendrils wormed their way out from the pyramids and each shape was surrounded by yellow washes that gave the effect of light from behind. Below the star were three hearts. One was small and purple and surrounded by an orange wash and the other was large and purple. The third one was small and black and sat in the centre of the larger purple heart. These hearts were on the back of Bobby’s right hand. On the edge of the cast just below the point where his forefingers were free to hang was a large purple Om sign. Next to this were two small black Om signs. These last two were situated above the base of the thumb over the area that was broken. Shiva had etched this colourful fresco with fabric pens whilst she, Bobby and Captain Count Down were having a drink and skunk session in Gorman Road a few days earlier.