Hookah_19

“Here you go now. You’re a thinkin’ too too much. You need to simply listen to the music and let your fingers follow the feeling of the sound. You’ve been studying and practicing your scales and listening to the Trad, now…. long enough. It is in your blood, or in your genes, as they say now a days. Go. Rock will you now.”

” Ahh, tisk tisk. I think perhaps the lad has been hit one time too many with the hurly to remember only yesterday’s lesson.” said the wire-eyebrowed fiddler sitting in the corner. Flan was listening and watching the great pipe master encourage his latest pupil on the playing of the Uilleann bagpipes and her fiddle accompaniment was really not needed at the moment so she sipped her black and tan’s mingling fluids and checked her wristwatch as clinking of the chains commenced.

The soapstone stove’s bottom heatshield was being raised. Four chains supported the load of wood, peat and newspaper kindling that was carefully arranged on the the five foot square platform that would close under the custom crafted soapstone chamber. The chains on each side of the stove ratcheted up through three inch diameter enameled cast iron piping that was incorporated into and through the dragon footed support structure curving and scrolling to the chimney. Serious elevator mechanics were housed discreetly above and to the sides of the stone chimney to power the platform’s clockwork defiance of gravity. The clinking and reassuring chatter of the raising chains reminded me of an old wooden roller coaster approaching the first big hill.

The raising and the lowering of the Shield, as the locals had come to call the stove’s fuel platform, was an event that people set their watches by in the village as you could hear it echo out through the chimney’s iron support exoskeleton.

“Coop, now would you look at that. My Ash and blackthorn amidst the peat. That load will take us through the morning tea. They load the stove just twice a day. If I can arrive here, like we did today before the eight PM shield, and see what sort of mix they have going, I can pretty much tell how nice the pipes will be for playing.”

“What about your reeds, are they as reliable as the pipe’s response to the fuel and humidity mix. Can you tell from it how it will go?” I asked looking around the pub at the milling locals only half understanding what Maeve was goin’ on about.

“Well, now. I can’t be sure….Now, the pipes response is pretty much trackable in so much as I know that if that Shield is piled with peat an no wood and it is warm to my feet in here and its raining as usual outside that they will be OK but muddy sounding. My reeds are a lot more tempermental, now. I can’t depend on any one reed to work in any specific situation. I guess it’s down to my poor reed making skills. But I tell myself it is all the random tobacco’s that are smoked in here. Interfering like.

“The tourists bring in all kind of plant and god only knows what else in their cigarettes, pipes and those ghastly gourd hookahs that they have started with….the plant matter and particulates that those engineered pumpkins throw off is positively radical. Radical I tell ya, now,” winked Maeve as she smiled knowingly, she herself being the pioneer who developed the neo-hookah smoking trend across the E.U.

It was unusual to have a basement in an old cottage in Ireland as the need to dig below the frost line for foundation stability meant you only had to go down a couple of feet at most. Not having to dig to a human size depth, or a depth that at least is most of the way to a fathom meant that cellars under cottages were a luxury or curious architectural design in these parts.

The pub’s renovation and initial installation of the great soapstone stove from the kingdom down by Amerikay Vermont, as the older generation referred to it, was quite the village event back in the late 1800’s. Dozen’s of local farmers and men of the bogs pitched in and helped in the unusual project of lifting the actual cottage, that dated back to the 1700’s onto a timber system that allowed for the building to be temporarily rolled away from the old foundation. Digging and even a bit of dynamiting of hard ledge allowed for a full basement to be built, with a french drain system to keep the wet out,  thus accommodating the stove cellar shield contraption, stores of Poitín and the local cell of hard-men on the run, it was rumored.

Dragon_18

The rain fell like a town-sized wet blanket. Clods and sheets of moisture drenched the rolling countryside, turning the hills and stone walls into a fuzzy landscape pulsing with paint spattered sheep grazing overs hectars of green. As I looked out the triple celled walls of the greenhouse I could hear the dripping of the gutters, leading to the cistern catchment, ticking as regularly as a clock. Thitik, Thitik, Thitiik, Thitik….

“So lads, shall we convene in the pub later and perhaps have a tune?” asked Maeve.

“Ah yes. Yes. That sounds proper,” replied Cocoa.

“Right then, Maeve will you be bringing your pipes? I am dying to hear them again,” I asked as she swept up the greenish Connemara marble counter, depositing all of the soil into the worm powered composter to the side.

“Oh, now I don’t know if the weather will be right tonight to be a playin’ the pipes. My reeds need it reasonable and this spell of rain is a bit much….but if I can get the lads to keep the stove fired with a bit of wood instead of peat then, now, maybe….” she trailed off as she pulled a clay pipe from her front dress pocket. She plunged a brass knob into a small round chamber that resembled a brass tissue dispenser, pulling the knob up and out with a soft growling flame flaring from the wooden stick. She puffed and fired the pipe bowl, it glowing and issuing a sweet smell like the sweat of a winded horse as Maeve stared blankly through the smoke.

—

The bar was central to the old cottage’s layout; its horshoe shape made irregular by artfully bent curves and depressions as though the shoe was pinged by a harder than steel regular who siddled up to the bar a bit strong-like. Planxty played over the Bose environmental speakers littered throughout the pub.

A large windowless white soapstone stove commanded a central position inside the space. It radiating a soft drying heat beyond the five foot diameter wrought iron fence that encircled the stove and the plainly spectacular stone chimney that lofted above. Large cast iron legs, custom fashioned to extend up and over the stove, pretzled back on themselves before joining in support of the stone chimney which accepted the stainless steel stovepipe directly below. After a couple of pints and a squint through the smoke, the hearth resembled an illuminated manuscripted dragon having found its way down a chimney in search of blast of chunes.

“Ah, now…. here’s the truth: some are born with it, some have to uncover it and practice it regularly, others have not a wit of talent but have a style that affords them a space from which they can play and then there are….well, you’ve heard ‘em now lads come on,  the perhaps saddest folk….those who have no talent, have good ears and taste but allow their ego’s to insulate themselves, not anyone elses mind you….. and they play noises thinking they are on the road to music but…..ah now, who do we have here,” asked Nicky the bartender as we walked into his pub bringing the dripping weather onto the flagstone and sawdust floor.

“How now, Nicky. Will you be stoking the stove soon?” asked Maeve straight off the bat at she set down her case with a soft click. The handful of what were clearly regulars with weather-worn expressions of wonder attached to pints in various stages of drink, stared at us, unabashedly.

“Well now, since you have jumped the gun colleen, I will be so bold as to ask,” he paused as he whipped an orange and white Tigger towel that he had been cleaning a pint glass with, “is that a set of Uilleanns in that case or are you finally paying me back my ash?”

Enneagram_17

She had a bonsai bromeliad flowing out of her right ear. The plant was candy-cane striped and opened to an impossibly delicate array of petals that caught the light of the evening sun in its dew. Her linen dress had a sheen of well-worn use but was still quite becoming to her casual brilliance. As she spoke she adjusted the panel controlling the greenhouse venting program. The micro-climate of southwest Ireland was remarkably changeable but tended to stay quite temperate and fairly sunny compared to the rest of the island. Maeve had lived her for years, some said that she was very close to the Hollywood actress Maureen Hara years ago.

“Well, there are a number fanciful stories about the Eneagram’s origin. Sufi, Jesuits, psychedelic florists of ancient Sumeria, gnostic travelers of the early Christian period before Rome centralized everything. Personally I think the medieval church, there was only the Catholic church then before the reformation, made great use of the basic framework of the system. They of course tweaked it and Catholicked it up, while simultaneously squashing its dissemination to the lay world. Like many of their command and control practices they armed certain groups and monastic societies with its insight; empowered a handful of men with their version of the Enneagram.”

“So, Maeve are you like saying that the Enneagram is at the root of medieval christianity? I thought….”

“Now, no. I wouldn’t go that far. But I do think the priest class in certain pockets had knowledge of the system and they used it. Was the Vatican aware of it and using it, I think probably not so much by the Middle Ages but it is widely recognized that the Seven Deadly sins, which really came into grand consciousness in the Middle Ages, was formaly set down by the Pope, I think it was Gregory, back in the 6th Century,” said Maeve as she measured out soil mixtures for her plants in beakers and recycled planting pots.

“I was wondering about the Seven Deadlies, but just seven how many does the Enneagram have? ” I asked twirling a test tube between my fingers, clinkin’ on my soapstone rings.

“Well Coop, that is where this gets interesting if not a bit conspiratorial. Now, the Enneagram no matter who is talking or teaching it always concerns nine different types. Personalities in Western speak but of course the Seven Deadly are just seven. What happened to the other two? If the Christian church is trying to evangalize and spread their word there has got to be a common framework with which to work from, now, place to place. Now this is well before the parish system get put firmly into place…. Anyway, let me back up a bit and explain the Enneagram system,” at this point Maeve picks up her lead-headed shillelagh and starts to draw a curious nine-pointed star with an opening at the bottom two points, enscribed in a circle. “So starting at the top right we number one through nine. Each number represents a type or tendency. Go around clockwise we have: one and anger; two and pride; three and deceit; four and envy; five and avarice; six and fear; seven and gluttony; eight and lust and finally nine and sloth….

“So Maeve sounds just like the seven deadlies with couple of notable additions with the names of fear and deceit. Uh, it does seem weird that fear and deceit are not apart of the seven deadlies.”

“Yes it is surprising. I also find it interesting the fear and deceit are so clearly such a enormous part of Western society these days.”

“Yah, it is almost like a couple of huge elephants in the room especially when you look at political systems, elections, so called democratic governments. It as though fear and deceit are the modus operandi in play constantly. Large lies proped up and propogated to enstill a fear in the masses.

“Ok, Coop, now you are starting to sound truly conspiratorial. Let me back a bit and flesh out the Enneagram with some other language….” as Maeve was about to pull down a leather-bound book from a knotty-pine shelf, she paused, erased the Enneagram from the floor and smiled. “I think we have visitor coming through the apiary.”

Gossip_16

As I took my cushion and crossed my legs, rocking to settle into the kapok-stuffed zafu, those cotton and foam zafu’s hurt my butt after a few hours, I began by focusing on my breath. Things were going fine and still, as I counted my breath so I switched to letting go of the breath-focus and switched to shikantaza. Awareness. See the thoughts and let them float by as if they were clouds…. 

gossip is a particularly pernicious and seductive form of violence…. Character assassins are common criminals running the show, much of big government and academia courses with rivers of gossip, the tributaries are many and flow from all levels. many of the people in positions of authority and power got there in part from shrewd and lewd trafficing and generation of gossip about their competitors and people in proximity to their travels….dude, you are one dark observer. let it go. breathe….

One….Two….Three….Four….

it can’t all be so disingenuous and corrupt. I’m hungrier than a rhino. I would like to see a rhino in the wild some day. do rhino’s gossip? so, what exactly is gossip and what is news? I have observed up close and felt the cold shoulder of former friends who have been participant in the active reception of gossip making the lazy mistake of listening to the content of the gossiper as opposed to listening to the gossiper as a gossiper. or is it gossipee….

ok, there I go again. Let it go. But it is so interesting I have been thinking about this off the cushion, but now it is floating on up nicely formed. Stop. Breath. Go to ten. Follow to ten. Concentrated attention. Shikantaza too thin at the moment. gossip: go sip: tea: beverage and communion. sharing with collectivee. elemental. Aaahgh. there I go again. Blind Willie Johnson would have been aware of gossip and its evil. yes he would have thoght it evil. extreme, though. did he ever sing directly about, by word, of gossip….

One….Two….Three….Four….Five….Six….Seven…..Eight……..Nine………….Ten…………One………..Two………Three………

Four………..Five………Six……….Seven……

gossip is unfounded by the person speaking. if someone heard something but did not verify it and passes that on it is gossip. now of course the spinning and coloring of information is inevitable by virtue of transmission but there are many folk who thrive and actively color gossip for their own selfish bene…..

One…..Two…..Three………Four……..

The Bell rings and the forty minute sit ends. I lean over my forhead to the weather-worn stone and breath shallowly feeling the stretch on the small of my back. As I turn my neck to the right I am surprised to see Cocoa, looking at me smiling in a new Aran Island black wool sweater. As brilliant as a LED, a honeybee sucking the dew off of her woolen shoulder. When did she get here I wonder.  Honeybees on the island! We are well over the three miles they normally forage. There must be a honeybee colony on the Skelligs. As we sit up and stretch our arms up and over I look up and see the huge clouds rolling and floating effortlessly by, despite the stange calm here on the terrace between the beehive huts.

As we each get up and walk toward the lower terrace of the island I begin to actively pickup the thoughts of the sit. I should be breathing and focusing on the slow steps but I am too stuck on the clouds swirling in my self:

of course there are far more innocent gossips, those that pass on info oblivious to the damage they are spreading but there are also willful gossips who I put in the category of violent gossips. we have met them and probably shaken their hands. remember, when you are listening to someone talk about someone else the only valid information you can receive from that encounter is about the person talking not about the person being talked about. thats it. probably the key to unlocking the grip of gossip or staying clean of gossip. elephants can hear the heards’ gossip through their large feet which are actually audio receptors of a sort. longwave communication for up to miles through the earth. pervasive. one of the differences, maybe the chief differences between gossip is about individuals or groups of people. political campaigns are a real clear example of gossips effectivemess. why do you think, so called negative campaigning, is the final resort or rather the inevitable technique used. when the race gets close the final terms of the political engagement are gossip. now of course the presentation and sound of the gossip is very different than the type you encountered in the halls of your boarding school between classes. it is on the net in the form of slurmails and viral advertising. if I consult academic researchers will they point out that “negative advertising” works, is inevitable in close races and is often introduced when one side is felt to be losing…..hey at the foot or root of it all is ego. ego. aaah, those with the largest ego are the biggest so called traders in gossip. how sad. and I am thirsty….

I finish my thought as I catch up the snail-pace walk of Cocoa as we continue on our shikantaza. Thirteen of us walking in meditation between sits but i am probably the only one working out theories on gossip, yet not even sure who I am or why I am here….

it is all very much entwined with our primal need to tell stories. we evolved by communicating information through complex oral traditions and there is nothing like a spicy “secret” to move along a story. if as a storyteller you have information of a surprising and revelatory nature you gain attention for yourself, maybe even a sense of distorted self-esteem…. Dependant Arising, perhaps? undoubtedly. all this water and none of it drinkable. salt.