When East meets West.

Like a lot of people and perhaps a little foolishly, I mix orthodox Western Medicine with Eastern and Complimentary Medical practices. But strangely, at the moment, my GP, who is Dr Western-Orthodox-Thankyouverymuch has referred me to a Psychologist and an Acupuncturist/Chinese Herbalist at the same time. Ostensibly, this was for two very different problems. So my GP thought. And I also.

I was referred to the Psychologist for grief counselling. My GP decided, as I was unable to access any counselling in Newcastle when I really needed it, that, what the hell, if we can get it for free now, why not. We had to fudge a questionnaire to access a mental health initiative which gave people in need free access to a Psychologist. Basically, I had to appear to be in danger of self harm.

Unfortunately, there were no State sponsored initiatives for access to Chinese Traditional Medicine, so for this I have to pay. The TCM is for the occupational focal distonia in my right forearm. Most commonly this is called 'Writer's Cramp'. And after having paid over AUS$1,000 for MRIs, Cat Scans, and Neurologist fees, I was told that there is nothing that can be done and learn to do everything with my left hand. Oh, except maybe, there's this exclusive clinic in Paris that seems to be having some success and would you like a referral? Hence the TCM. I was actually quite gobsmacked my GP suggested this as the last time I suggested something Complimentary, he barked "They're all quacks!"

So the therapy for grief and TCM for my arm.

Of course, in therapy, you discover that your grief over your Mum's death is actually this huge gordian knot tied up with all sorts of supressed angst from your childhood and disillusionment over the current state of your love life.

And in TCM, where your ailment is treated on the basis of what type of qi is imbalanced, or congested, or stagnated, you discover that the occupational focal distonia of your right forearm, your persistant sinusitis and your insomnia are caused by stagnated heart qi . Oh. It's Mum again. And the childhood crap. Oh and Frenchie's thrown into the mix for good measure.

Perhaps I should be content that I seem to be tackling the same problems from two different approaches. Very clever of me! If I do say so myself.

Except, in my last TCM appointment my acupuncturist/Chinese Herbalist gets this look on his face. It's that look that says "Well this should be going like the clappers by now!" But my pulses are still tight and reduced, my tongue is still too dark. So I get an extra needle in my elbow that hurts like hell, my dosage of herbs is ramped up from a modest two level spoons (a little itty bit one supplied on your first visit - a bit like a lolly for grown ups) to a more let's get down to business three heaped spoons with extra herbs in the mix and the current herbs increased in potency. And I thought the therapy with the Psychologist was going well!

And this makes me so depressed.

In some of my other encounters with, admittedly, the less evidenced based Complimentary practices, such as chakra alignments, distance healings and the like, I've been told that my heart chakra, the seat of love, was blocked. Well, that was a polite discription. In one session the metaphor was, "Love, if yours was a kitchen sink, the drain wouldn't just have a plug in it, someone's welded a metal plate over the whole damn sink!" Nice metaphore, my heart as a drain hole.

The prescription was to carry a piece of rose quartz on my person. Which my friend V so kindly gave to me. I carried this piece of quartz around with me for three years. I had it with me during my Mum's illness and death. I had it with me during the early stages of grieving. I lost it briefly when I fell in love with Frenchie and found it again when I realised there was nothing in it. Then one day, by accident, somehow I managed to give it to a customer with their change.

I'm a big believer in signs. I saw this a symbol, that finally with all that I'd been through, not just in the last few years with Mum, but through the bad years of abuse and neglect in my childhood, through the hurts of longing to be loved, that with what I'd learned recently, in being able for the first time in my life to truely love myself, that I no longer needed the rock. That the metal plate was off the sink.

But it seems, I forgot the plug.

Ya better not shout, ya better not cry (reprise)

Back in Sydney, after a little side trip to Newcastle. And apparently there's been riots and gang warfare and everything over the weekend. Geez Louise, most be something in the water! Must be too many people drinking carbonated french mineral water or something. Although I suspect it has more to do with the rather nasty anti-terrorism and updated sedition legislation that the Lord of Ruin rammed through parliment last week.

I suppose one of the great things about being caught up with your own dramas is that you miss out on the bad news happening in your own neighbourhood.

So, I'm going to continue to ignore the neighbourhood and get on with my own drama.

Scene: The night of the erection of the Canadian Fir.

I'd been informed by D that Friday night was the night and I'd better be home or else! It was the night of the yule tide dressing and the inaurgural outing of the Canadian Fir. As an artist, I'm told that it's my repsonsibility to do the art direction of said production. And as D's best friend, I know if I don't I will never hear the end of it.

So I agree. Friday night it is.

My jobette in Melbourne has now picked up pace and I'm very busy. The maker, also a friend, that I've employed for the gig, needs tlc and reassurance. Things at this point, aren't going well. I'm tired and home late.

Thank fully, C, D's boyfriend is a calm, endlessly sympathetic fellow and generous with his $600 a bottle scotch. I know that a very smooth double scotch on the rocks is waiting for me. I walk through the door and C takes one look at my face and pours me a triple. D is waiting. Impatiently.

Now D, is the one of the loveliest people in the world. He's also bossy. Extremely funny and completely direct. If he doesn't like you, he tells you. In a way that will have you and everyone in stiches - and he'll be completely serious about the underlying feeling.

D also has a fondness for my anti-anxiety drugs that I use when travelling.

I know this. I also know that if I hide them, he will find them. So I don't and tell him that these aren't the usual and stronger than what I ordinarily use. So don't eat them all.

It's decided that we'll have dinner first.

A lovely meal is on the table and D decides, suddenly that there is something he needs to take care of in the laundry. So off he dashes downstairs. C glances at me across the table and I just shrug. And then, I begin to laugh. At first, a little chuckle, but soon it's big huge guffaws of uncontrollable mirth. "What's going on?" demands C. "Nothing!" I splutter. "I'm laughing at myself."

I'm staying in the guest bedroom, downstairs next to the laundry.

And I know D so well that I know he's gone to get some mother's little help from my stash. And I know he'll know better than me and eat too many. They kick in fast!

Sure enough, after an interval, D reappears. He's found a great big white terry towling dressing gown. His back is ramrod straight as he floats into the dining room. He's off his trolly.

C and I are now treated to an intimate and incredible performance of "Doris Day on a night out on the town with Prince Valium".

The resulting farce is only really funny to the people who know the performers, but in the end, at the finale of the Royal Gala, the Canadian Fir is finally erect and magnificent in it's festive regalia. C and I by this time have wilted. And D has left the stage and caught the express to the Land of Nod.

And this time, I wearing the very comfortable slippers of friendship.

Merry Xmas C and D!

There's nothing like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

I'm a classic for collecting pointy objects and giving myself a good hard jab, preferably in a tender spot. Just to see if it'll hurt as much as I think it will.

I ran into Frenchie on Friday night. I call him Frenchie, because he's French. A stupidly apt nickname. And we have a history. A bizarre, convoluted, awkward little story, which for the life of me, I can't understand why I can't let it go.

I suppose I should look at Friday night as a definite finale to something that never was and was never going anywhere. But... and that's where I fall down. I can always find that 'but' to keep it going a little bit longer.

And in this case the 'but' is the strange and ongoing coincidental nature of our meetings.

I have a confession to make. I have a weakness for consulting psychics. Not that I ever get much sense out of them, but I see it as a form of self indulgence, like spiritual chocolate. And I guess you could call me a chocoholic. Anyway, in the last year, I have consulted three psychics about Frenchie.

Psychic No.1 "He's confused. He's not working alone. Someone is teaching him bad habits. If it's meant to be, it'll will happen"

Psychic No.2 "He's confused. He's narcissistic and shallow and will never admit to his true self"

Psychic No.3 "He's confused. He thinks about you as much as you think about him. Track him down and tell him how you feel. If you don't, you'll regret this for the rest of your life"

Of course, with each of them there was guff about seeing snow and money coming from oveseas. Actually each of the readings said more about my career than anything else and if they're right I'm about to become fabulously wealthy and happy etc.

It's was actually psychic no. 3 that freaked me out. And I'm never freaked out by psychics. It was because she told me something that I really wanted to hear and more importantly, wanted to believe.

And in wanting to believe, I have to tempt fate. So what do I do? I change the return flight on my ticket from Melbourne. Coming back to Newcastle, instead of Sydney, a day earlier than originally planned.

Why?

Because Frenchie is in Newcastle.

And I know, just know, I will see him if I do it.

And I visualise where and when we'll meet.

And it happens. No shit! Exact time, and place.

And this is the third time this has happened!

Some coincidence huh?

So, in a round about way I told him what I needed to tell him and in a round about way he told me to fuck off.

I see my therapist on Tuesday. I'm sure she's going to have a field day with this one!

Golden Showers

While on my horror sojourn in Newcastle, I started attending buddhist meditation classes with a buddhist monk. This was sometime after the death of my mum from cancer. Aside from an abiding interest in buddhism which I wanted to indulge, I was also hoping that the meditation classes would help with the cripling grief I was experiencing at the time.

So off I went with all sorts of preconceptions which were swiftly demolished on the first evening. The monk's name was Glenn. He gave us his ordained name, which I won't even try to bastardise, and then explained that he was taking a break and wasn't wearing his robes at the moment. OK, a buddhist monk in civilian mufti - I can handle that. So although he was wearing a maroon track suit, he still had that slightly eerie ethereal aura and perpetual almost smile that I associate with a good buddhist monk.

He also explained that unlike the popular idea that meditation was zoning out and having a good ol' relaxin' time, that actually, real meditation was damn hard work. Good for the soul I thought. But no! Buddhists don't believe in souls. It's all about the mind. He explained the dangers of meditation. A solemn lecture, delivered with the full force of aformentioned slightly eerie ethereal aura and perpetual almost smile, of the deceitful abilities of the mind. The first evening consisted entirely of the lecture, which was also extended to include the posture for meditation and the whys and wherefores. It was amazingly technical and sounded like learning to drive!

That night I also learnt that Buddha, was not The Buddha, but just a buddha. The Guatama Buddha, also known as Siddharta was just the latest to come for a visit to rekindle the Dharma. Apparently there are millions of buddhas... the White Tara, the medicine buddha... loads and loads of them. Oh!

Visualising a buddha, whether it be the Gautama buddha or another was an important part of the meditation.

And there was an ordered approach to the preparation for meditation which was as important as the meditation itself. First thing apon waking, a drink of water to refresh the body. Blow your nose, no tissues, over the sink to clear the sinuses, then a shower to cleanse the body.

Part of the shower ritual was also to do a visualisation that would cleanse the etheric body of impurities. This involved imagining a buddha raining down on you a golden light which premeates your body and with the water from the shower head, washes away any ugly little spiritual stains sticking to your metaphysical insides.

Right oh! So I'm showering with buddha. Can do!

And this is where I come unstuck. The deceitful power of the mind.

You see, in visualising a buddha, you are told that a buddha is an enlightened being. A perfect sentient entity. Part of that perfection is an unearthly physical (metaphysical?) beauty. An unearthly, youthful physical beauty composed of golden light.

I'm in the shower, first thing in the morning, happily visualising away. I'm showering and a golden light is raining down on me from a buddha, an unearthly, beautiful youth composed of golden light.

You know, I've been as good as gold! And it's been a while between drinks, if you know what I mean. It's been so long, I'm almost a card carrying monk myself!

The power of the deceitful mind. Plus unintentioned abstinance. Plus an overactive imagination.

Somehow, by degrees after a couple of morning shower rituals, my aloof, glowing, golden buddha, slowly decends from the mystic heavens and takes on a decidely more material aspect and I find myself visualising a shower buddy rather than a shower buddha. Who now keeps appearing in the guise of Czech adult entertainment star.

Oh my god! I've accidently discovered the porno buddha!

Of course having a zealously religious protestant upbringing and having turned towards eastern mysticism I'm completely racked by Catholic guilt! I feel so guilty about being aroused by porno buddha in the mornings that I can no longer face the slightly eerie ethereal aura and perpetual almost smile of Glenn the buddhist monk in civilian mufti.

I even try, in desperation, to visualise my shower buddha as a woman. But she morphs into Angelina Jolie and for some reason that's just as bad. (Latent heterosexuality?)

I stop attending classes.

I still experience the cripling grief.

But slowly, in time, I begin to heal.

And millions of buddhas are smiling down on me. Including my special friend, porno buddha.

I dedicate what ever merit this post may contain, to the benefit of all sentient entities in the universe.