Lighting fag two from fag one, I remember Carl always complained I treated him like a dog. Carl, do this, Carl, do that. Meantime I’ve started to bleed. I’ll have to go over to the main loos and pick up some tampons.
Mum drove Dad crazy with cats. Five cats.
What a relief to read, though. Someone else’s shit. Read read read. I always hated reading. So the wife’s called Linda. It’s good to have a name for her.
Vipassana vanity. Heading for lunch, young bloke, tall, pale, sitting in lotus position on the bench outside the dining room in deliberate full view of everyone with his hands upturned on his knees, thumbs and forefingers joined, eyes ecstatically half closed. Jim Carrey in Ace Ventura. How many times with Susie? Almost made up for the awful lunch. What did they do to that nut roast? Dunk it in turps?
Yep, Ines fucked up big-time with the nut roast. Maybe I was indispensable after all. Lotus show-offs are two a penny at these retreats. Girl a couple of months ago used to block the stairs to the servers’ bedrooms. Meditating supposedly. Her spread knees pretty well touched both walls.
Meantime, I would like to learn not to feel superior to everyone, though I don’t suppose I ever will. Actually, I’m already thinking how superior I am, wanting not to feel superior. And how superior of me to have recognized this paradox. And to have admitted this stalemate. And so on and on. Seems there is no escape from my superiority.
What a prick!
But this is one of the bits I could have written myself.
You’re lying on the sofa and I touch your foot. You withdraw it. You turn away. Same thing in bed. You’re turned the other way and I touch your foot with mine. I want at least our feet to be together. You withdraw. I’m sleepy, you say. Leave me alone. Same thing with your hand over the table. You pull it back and lean down to stroke the dog. You turn away from me to the dog. I touch your shoulder while you’re cooking and you shake my hand off. You don’t want me. So why do you want to keep me? Why? Why can’t we separate? What is wrong with us?
This was me with Carl in France. Definitely. I couldn’t bear for him to touch me. But how can you avoid a man in a tent?
Why is everything in this diary about me?
Day 6. Signed up for appointment with the retreat leader, name of Ian Harper. Pure curiosity. Not expecting him to help me really. A ten-minute slot in his bungalow living room. Guy seeing him before me wouldn’t meet my eyes as he came out. Sombre, with heavy jowls, bushy eyebrows. Harper in an armchair. Pink and proper. Grey jersey. Personnel officer for Waterstones sort of thing. Ordinary middle-class décor, table chair sofa, shelves with CDs. Somehow old-fashioned. Not sure why. Me in an armchair opposite. He asks how I’m getting on. Can I feel the breath on my lips, can I move my attention through my body finding sensation on all its various parts, can I keep still in the hours of Strong Determination?
Vipassana for Dummies.
When I open my mouth to answer I wonder if any sound will come out. I haven’t spoken for days.
It depends on my mood, I tell him. My voice feels thin, a bit high-pitched. I say I’m experiencing drastic mood swings. Euphoria. Depression. Sometimes I can hold the position, cross-legged, if I manage to concentrate on my breath, or some sensation somewhere. Then it’s quite pleasant. There’s a pleasant glow. Sometimes I have to move every few minutes. I’m in agony. I can’t understand how I ever sat through ten minutes, never mind a whole hour. I can’t understand those people who sit there seraphic, as if time didn’t exist. They are already in eternity. The leader on the women’s side, that Asian woman. Like a statue carved in air.
He nods sagely. He’s bored.
‘The truth is,’ I confide, ‘there’s a bit of a crisis at home at the moment, with the result that I keep on and on thinking of what I’m going to be getting back to when I finish here. It’s hard to concentrate.’
Silence. He doesn’t want to go there. He doesn’t want to hear about my marital crisis. Hard to blame him. Absolutely neutral, he asks me what I do for a living.
‘I run a small publishing company. Unfortunately, we’re on the brink of bankruptcy.’
He does his sage nodding again. He doesn’t want to know. I can’t tell if he’s really watching me very carefully or if he’s just waiting for the ten minutes to be up. Why does he do this job? Is it a job? Does he get paid?
I ask: Is there any way the meditation can help me? I tend to panic and I’m afraid I’ll really panic next week. Then I’ll do the wrong thing. There will be tough decisions. Can meditation help me?’
He blinks. Maybe I’ve finally come into focus.
‘Did you come to the Dasgupta to run away from this situation?’
It’s an aggressive question, but he manages to make his voice relaxed and peaceful, as if it hardly mattered.
‘Let’s say, to get some distance, before the shit hits the fan.’
‘You suffer in these situations?’
‘I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, who wouldn’t? I’m losing everything I’ve ever worked for. It’s my company. I built it from scratch.’ Then I tell him: ‘At the same time I’m splitting up with my wife. I’m going to lose my home.’
I wish I knew I was splitting up. I wish it was decided and done. Over.
He sighs. After a short silence, he asks: ‘Do you know the story of the Buddha and the second arrow?’
‘No.’
I’m beginning to feel angry.
‘A student asked the Buddha a question very similar to the one you have asked me.’
His voice is precise, bureaucratic, as if recorded, but I suppose there is something kind in his face. It’s hard to describe. An impersonal kindness, if that makes sense. I try to pay attention.
‘The Buddha replied to the student with a question of his own: ‘When someone is struck by an arrow, is it painful?’
‘Yes’, said the student.
‘And then another question: ‘When this someone is struck by a second arrow, is it painful?’
‘Of course it is,’ said the student.
‘Then the Buddha said, “There is nothing you can do about the first arrow. Life is dukkha. You are bound to encounter suffering. However, the second arrow …”’
Harper hesitates.
‘“The second arrow is … optional.”’
He stops, end of story apparently. I have the impression he has told it a million times.
‘Optional? The Buddha said optional?’
‘Yes. Optional.’
‘I’m surprised the word was around. In those days. In Sanskrit?’
Harper raises an eyebrow. He smiles. ‘Optional,’ he repeats. ‘The second arrow is optional. Meditation can help you with that choice. You can decline the second arrow.’