So big, I couldn't stop smiling

I went to collect the bike from the hire shop; which was more of a boutique actually, Harley Davidson branded clothes and other things, everything nice and clean.

I tried a couple of leather jackets before settling on a traditional looking number with the zip across my chest at an angle. I asked about helmets. The selection consisted of several of the type sported by Dick Dastardly’s friend, Klunk. None fit comfortably but I took one anyway. The bike was a Sportster, the smallest, at 900cc but still noisy even on the very wide main road that runs through the centre of Sedona.

Between me and Prescott, 50 or so miles west, there was mainly desert and a range of quite pointy hills. I had left the edge of town and experimented with speed a little before I decided that the helmet was cramping more than just my style. I strapped it to the grab handle and set off again, a little tentatively at first as it seemed very easy to imagine my head meeting the tarmac and splitting open like a melon.

After maybe an hour, having stopped off at the little ex-mining town of Jerome, I had reached an altitude where there was snow on the edges of the road. Only a few minutes more and I was winding down the other side of the range. The view was very, very big; miles of desert with a pencilled in road, squiggling into the haze.

The music kept us going

Monday evening, listening to Tank by the Stranglers courtesy of my excellent Sennheiser cordless headphones and I am right back there in that gold Ford Granada, my father having taken his two early teenage sons for a fortnight drive-about in the borders. I think that you would call that a low point. Everyone would rather have been somewhere else.

I can’t remember a great deal about that holiday. The damp smell of the bungalow we had rented or, egged on by my brother and me, my dad’s abandoned overtaking manoeuvre on a country road. When confronted by a tractor coming the other way there was a seemingly interminable, noisy and dramatic locking up of breaks. Next, an odd moment of irony as our tyre smoke wafted gently past us, leaving the three of us behind us to quietly reflect.

Apart from listening to the Stranglers, Magazine and Kraftwerk, one other thing comes to mind. Working from the back seat as we drove along, vigorously rubbing my dad’s head and utilising the volume enhancing properties of static electricity, I succeeded in getting his comb-over to become a kind of jaunty Mohican.

Cutting......

My dad does some things differently from other people; pronunciation of certain words for example. I went to a school called Grosvenor House, which he always referred to as Gruvner, cancer has a hard second “c”, canker, the other morning we had a coffee together at Coshta (which he told me is Portuguese for rib).

During that caffeine break, he mentioned that he had fancied a new razor and had bought a four blade one. He stated that he likes it except that the head keeps falling off. Also “due to the hard water in the area a deposit of calcium builds up very quickly” on the instrument, “which is quite difficult to remove”.

I may be wrong but I bet those marketing types down at Gillette would refer to the calcium deposit as a Lubra-strip and I know from experience that attempting to remove it might well cause the head to come off.

Great crack

I had had a bad night’s sleep in that log cabin. There must have been 15 or so blokes, a good proportion of whom had been snoring hard. A bell went at about 5am to announce breakfast, and most people left after that, I went back to bed as I didn’t feel the need to walk in the dark; I didn’t have a torch anyway. An hour or so later I gathered together what little stuff I had and set off.

Having left Phantom Ranch, crossing the Colorado River on the foot bridge, I was presented with a massive dark cliff wall. I was going to take the longer route out; I had come down the shorter and steeper route the previous day so I turned right. It was starting to drizzle, there was no sign of anyone around, I decided I was going to do this walk quickly. Part of the reason that a lot of the others had left so early is that the slower ones would run the risk of running out of daylight at the other end of the day, at least that’s what the bumph at Grand Canyon Village warned you about, allow 12 hours they said; I knew that they had to protect themselves from those litigious fatter people you can find over there. I wanted to be out by lunchtime so I could head off to Monument Valley.

After a short while I caught up with a medical student with the biggest rucksack in the world, I don’t know what he had in there but he mentioned something about moving house as we walked together up a gorge for five minutes or so. He was behind me when he decided that he wanted to be travelling at a slower pace and we said our goodbyes. Despite the weather being less clement than it had been on the way down it was exhilarating to be marching up that path. I only encountered a few other beings before the last few miles of zigzag which had quite a few day trippers on it. I saw a few deer that stopped chomping the grass and looked over their shoulders at me as though they felt sorry for me. I caught up with a girl with another enormous rucksack. She had a tent and a baby in hers. Amazing; she had walked into the canyon the previous day and the pair of them had spent the night. The baby was three months old and there was snow on the ground at the rim.

Most people were well equipped for the hike; on the way in though, a girl passed me coming out on the steep path; she was wearing flip flops and listening to her walkman; she had no rucksack.

Oggetti

It was my birthday this week. I got some good presents. Amongst other things, a nice pair of Adidas trainers, some very interesting books, chocolates and a basket of fruit!

I bought myself something I have had an eye on for years but never got round to getting; an Eames coat rack. If that doesn’t mean anything to you, it looks like something a former snooker player might have made at his hobby craft class. It is a coat hanger that you screw to the wall, 14 brightly coloured balls attached to a wire frame.

Now I have it home though, I can’t find anywhere to put it. I was considering mounting it above the fireplace in the living room, it is so lovely, but that would be a bit silly; like buying something you covet but don’t know how you would use.

Regular

In a small town called Piano D’Orta in Abruzzo there is a café. The town is on a main road; the café is right by the traffic lights. As you approach you are greeted by the stares of the old men sitting outside under big awnings, playing cards, drinking very small glasses of something. They are apparently not fussed by the big lorries that thunder past.

Inside, a music station is playing on several TVs hanging from brackets attached to the ceiling and there are always a couple of video games players having a good work out in an adjacent room. It feels like the 80’s, loud colours, tatty condition; I’d say the chairs were made by a local welder and his friend with the staple gun. The two PCs which you can use to go online (when they haven’t got a virus) have become Caramac coloured.

It is never busy, just a handful of customers at a time, sometimes those old men when it is a bit chilly outside, but usually young folk; either way, people with nothing to do. I imagine that it must be busier in the evening, but I have never been then. Often there is a photocopied notice on the post in the middle of the room advertising a gig by a local band or a coach trip to Naples.

I go there to use the PC. No one notices me except when I go to the bar to ask for a coffee or pay for the PC and even then, whoever serves me is always doing something else at the same time; usually chatting to a worried looking teenager, gazing out towards the street.

The coffee is consistently the best coffee I have drunk in any bar or café anywhere I have ever been, the smallest espresso cup made of the chunkiest china; you just get two sips of that smooth black nectar.

Goodbye and thank you

I am surprised at my reaction to the news of the death of John Peel. I was a bit choked. Maybe it was because when I was at boarding school I usually went to sleep with my radio on, earphone in, tuned into the man himself. He was the last person to speak to me every night for quite a while.

There was the one occasion when everyone in my dormitory had received the severest bollocking due to a bit of a rumpus after lights out. There were a couple of nervous sniggers after the house master left and then it was finally quiet. There must have been over twenty of us in that dormitory. I decided that the fun must be over and so reached out from under the covers, plugged myself in and turned on my "radio cassette player", which was parked on the chair by my bed. How we all laughed (particularly as I was awarded detention); I’d plugged the earphone into the microphone socket.

Anyway, thank you very much Mr Peel, (you must be inundated with thank you messages wherever you are), sorry you had to leave so suddenly.

Art

I was at the local printers the other day when in came a rather doddery but very nicely presented old lady and her daughter. There was nowhere obvious to sit but she declined my offer of the edge of the desk I was perched on and was eventually persuaded to sit on a stack of boxes of A4.

She started to tell me about how she never had any idea what day it was any more. I sympathised and mentioned that I had managed to lose half kilo of cheese the other day (nice cheese from Italy; I had taken it from the fridge just to try a sliver and it has never been seen since, I think I must have wrapped it up neatly and popped it in the bin).

Her mother spoke to the girl behind the counter who disappeared and returned with a proof of the Christmas Card that the smiley old lady will be sending this year. They liked it, and so did I; a pretty representation of a vase of lilies. The daughter read out the inscription; ‘vase of lilies etc…….1937’. “Oh no, said the painter, I did this one in 2002”. The correction was made and the proof okayed together with an instruction to print 150 of them.

With the help of her daughter, the old lady manoeuvered herself from the stack of boxes and said bye to me. I mentioned that even if her memory was not as good as it had been she could still paint. “Did you like it?” I was saying that I did when her daughter interrupted to explain that once her mother was in front of her easel you couldn’t pry her away, “even when I bring her a mug of tea which she usually puts her brush in, she doesn’t stop till she is happy with the result”.

Artichoke Paloise

I was just telling Dom in an email about some Norewegians and Swedes who had taught me a drinking song when I was in France for a few months in 1991. I was thinking about a particular Norwegian girl. I had known her for quite a while before I discovered that (although she was in her early twenties) she had already had bad cancer. I remember two things particularly, she had the most frightening spiral scar all the way up her arm ( I think the surgeon had taken all the skin off and then put it back) and she was incredibly kind, cooking us meatballs and generally watching out for everyone. I wonder where she is. I also remember that when I left I said to people, " good bye, I will never see you again". I said that to a Canadian bloke. He was funny, very shy. He didn't smell too good at first as he had had all his clothes stolen in Pisa or somewhere and he had no money to replace them; we only discovered this later. In one of the first lessons, he had been asked a question and was struggling with the answer (you could only speak French in the classes). The teacher was a gorgeous demure woman called Pascale. He stammered away for a while and out of nowhere he came out with "je t'aime". He went bright red and buried his head in his hands; it was a great ice breaker. During the course he improved in confidence and in speaking ablility. In one of the last lessons, with the same beautiful teacher, he got himself stuck on the answer to a question. Like a school kid, before he had a chance to finish his sentence, I piped up with "je t'aime". He waited a perfect second and a half before he shrugged his shoulders, "peut-etre". There was another guy in my class, I would have been 27, this bloke was an 18 year old public school boy who had done a deal with his Dad that if he completed this course his father would pay or him to go skiing later. Andrew was his name, I really liked him despite his jeuvenile pranks. We had all been given comprehension to do from photocopied sheets with a series of pictures. I was minding my own business as Pascale started to come round the class to see how we were getting on. Soon she was helping Andrew who was sitting next to me. I shot a nonchalent glance over in his direction. There, as clear as day, was Andrew's sheet which they were both discussing. The main picture was one of the sun setting over Florence with a couple arm in arm in the foreground admiring the view. Above the couple were the words "Adrian and Pascale".

Shaolin everyone up

So, you might want to know how it went at the Peacock Theatre with the Shaolin Monks.

Well I would say it was colourful and loud, masses of energy with occasionally fabulous moments. There were kids who could tumble the length of stage with their arms by their sides, popping from their heads to their feet, as a friend of mine said, “like a slinky”.

What about the bloke who did a handstand on his two index fingers (instead of his hands); he did spend quite a while getting his chi into those digits first. Mig (who got the tickets) said afterwards that he could see his chi; good to know I’ve got someone I can talk to.

A Bit Stanstedy

I am going to see the Shaolin Monks doing their thing this evening. Quite looking forward to it although am hoping it is quite wacky. I was going to mention a chi related event from a week or so ago; at the risk of my friends finally giving up on me, here goes.

I was enduring that crazy torture that is travelling via Ryan Air from Stansted in the name of saving a few quid, it is test of your humility as well as strength. The way that they add extra charges, constantly change the weight limits for hand and hold luggage (and charge a fortune of you exceed them) and even get you to take off your jacket at security and so on is “not nice” (as my grandma would have said). But the tricky thing the other week was that, as they have reduced the hold baggage weight limit and increased the cabin limit, and don’t provide airside trolleys, there was a lot to carry. I was, (of the four of us travelling), the male of burden carrying age, add the fact that several of our bags didn’t have wheels and I found myself making my way to gate “50” with a rucksack and hammock on my back and a suitcase in each hand. We were also running a bit late. After a few minutes I felt like one of those blokes from world’s strongest man trying to walk quickly whilst carrying a log with a handle on it in each hand.

Two thirds of the way to the gate, it is hurting and I’m considering that the best thing to do would be to stop for a while, I’ve started to sweat and my arms are going to give up any second.

In my time I have experienced some things that I would not have guessed possible as a result of Tai Chi or meditation but not really over which I felt I had a great deal of control. My mind goes to some of those eccentrics whom I have witnessed on the Mind Body & Kick Ass Moves programme who can move their chi to wherever it is required in order that they can disable an opponent with a poke in the ribs or balance on their throat on the sharp end of a spear.

So as I wobble past the shop that sells cheese, whiskey and teddy bears I decide to give it a go. I tell myself to soften my muscles and breathe more smoothly. I can feel the chi accumulating in my belly and then for want of a better expression I start to pump it up my spine, over the top of my head and from the roof of my mouth down my front (round my microcosmic orbit). Quite quickly I can feel the build up of energy; I am breathing easily now. I start to divert the flow to include my arms and I focus on my sore muscles.

Well, what can I say, it worked. I duly arrived at the gate at the end of the universe, relaxed and without pain. I was amazed myself.

By the way, if you want to try it for yourself, I would recommend Barefoot Doctor’s Return of the Urban Warrior. I have read a number of books on microcosmic orbit stuff but this one is far less arcane than most. Then again you could fly from Heathrow.

Troppo stretto

Good evening from a slightly geriatric hotel in Sorrento where I took refuge in the bar after an unusual incident in the hire car. Actually there have been a couple of car related incidents in Italy this year. Last week I was enjoying the sweeping curves of the road up the mountain to the village where Gemma's family home is to be found (in the Abruzzo region). I was starting to get the measure of the Nissan Tino (of which I had never heard until I was given one for the week; it is a deisel people carrier). A nice level of twitchy tyre screech had been achieved as I rounded a familiar bend to discover a posse of Carabinieri standing by their Punto armed with the requisite speeding detail regalia. My heart gave one of those little jumps and a split second later they waved me on with the little red baton they use to pull people over. Initially relieved, then disappointed that I didn't qualify to be stopped, I then felt sure that they were actually quite impressed with my corner.

To earlier this evening, when I took a wrong turn on the way to my real hotel and then a second one to find myself in a very narrow street indeed. We are talking only three of four inches wider than the Nissan, with high walls on either side. The four of us went a bit quiet at first before Gemma and her sister freaked out a little and we came to rest a third of the way along the three of four hundred meter road. Here there took place a measure of hysteria amongst two of the passengers before I attempted, unsuccessfully to reverse back down the street. To cut a long story short, with literally an inch or so on each side (having folded in the wing mirrors) we eventually emerged from the tension into the nicest traffic jam I can remember. Now, I know it could have been quite embarrassing (having climbed out of the tailgate of the car) to have to explain to Mr Hertz that one of his vehicles was wedged between two walls some miles south of Naples, but that was not the source of the real tension. It was the feeling of confinement of the rear seat passengers and the anxiety transmitted to the driver (me) and front seat passenger (Ralph).

I cannot remember the last time I have felt like that. Sitting in the bar here, it took several minutes for us even to be able talk about the experience sensibly. People don't like to feel trapped, they just don't notice that they are most of the time anyway.

Drip

On Tuesday the kitchen ceiling fell in. I tracked the problem down to the cold water tap attached to the washing machine upstairs. I pulled the sheepish white good out from its cupboard and had a look round. The floor was damp but I couldn’t see why. Then…….plimp, a drop from the tap. I watched it, dared it even. Five or six seconds later……….plimp. I watched a few more and then turned the connector round less than a quarter-turn until it locked…………no more plimps. The machine was fitted a year ago and presumably has been dripping once every five or six seconds ever since, till there was enough water for the plasterboard downstairs to have to let go.

Two plumbing problems in a week. In all the Taoist books I‘ve read they always talk about the strength in soft things and often use water as an example.

Anyway, at the risk of repeating myself, like the relentless drip, I reckon that I need to watch out for the personal equivalent of doing a tiny bit of damage to myself that I might not even be aware of at regular intervals, which, over time will cause my ceiling to fall in. Maybe it is a recurring thought or worry that I need to just turn off.

I also reckon that on the other side of the same coin, if I do certain quite modest things regularly (and often) that I could benefit in a big way. Do tai chi, drink a glass of water, walk up a hill, be in contact with someone I like, relax on my expensive sofa, give a few quid to someone who needs it more than I do, remind myself who I am etc.

I do do tai chi some (not all) days, but as I sit here thinking about it, I suppose that if I did it as relentlessly and inevitably as that tap dripped then the results might be amazing. Taken to extreme, I could tell myself something or do something every five or six seconds and be permanently connected to my destiny; it would become inevitable!

Flow

There is a bit of a blockage removal theme to this week in my world. If pipes aren’t kept free of debris then it seems that all sorts of mayhem can ensue.

Several days ago, the drain from the sink in the kitchen became blocked. A few minutes of vigorous plunging made it worse. Subsequently, despite administering liberal quantities increasingly un-PC chemicals, peaking at something that claimed to be 92% sulphuric acid, we were no nearer free flow. Such was the intensity of my suction activity that there were resulting failures in the integrity of the pipe-work beneath the sink and the muscle fibre in my right arm.

Anyway, I was impressed by the levels of angst that the blockage caused. By the time it was eventually ejected at high speed from the sawn off pipe at first floor level at the back of the house, narrowly missing my inquisitive Dad, I had endured several days of blockages and leaks in my own plumbing. My energy had not been flowing as well as it might. It occurred to me that if energy encounters obstacles as it makes its way round my body, it’s no wonder that I can become ill. Imagine the damage that years of energy build-up, leaks and what have you can do to you. I must do Tai Chi more regularly.

Space

I go into a space in the middle of my head between my ears. I have it decked out quite nicely in there these days. It is a quiet room with a long curved leather sofa (facing away from me) in the foreground and a control consul with a big screen above it on the far wall. In the middle of the room a very large shiny stone is suspended from the ceiling, spinning slowly, significantly adding to the air of calm in there. It is quite dark. (I suppose when I don’t go in there myself that the lights may be brighter). On occasion, I have considered adding a water feature, but it doesn’t seem quite right. Sometimes there are one or two people sitting at the consul, maybe reading a magazine or tapping away at a key board. I ask them to shut everything non essential down and go off for a break. Then, where usually there is whatever I can see through my eyes, projected on to the screen, there becomes a very deep space.

After a few moments of quiet on my expensive chair, the most surprising, pleasant, reassuring, peaceful, real things will appear on the screen. Then the room can evaporate and I am left with whatever there is. There really are many things and feelings, the experience is ‘most adjacent’, as my Aunt Edith would say. When I leave, it feels more and more like I bring a bit of that feeling with me.

Chi whizz

I watched a programme on BBC3 the other evening called Mind, Body and Kick Ass Moves. It is a kind of martial arts review. It seems to be a blend of quite amusing tricks and demonstrations of seriously powerful concepts. The serious part focuses on chi.

An older man, an exponent of something called Okinawa Karate, was able to prevent his attacker from even initiating a strike by using his chi to “disrupt” his would be assailant's concentration.

Call me someone who has had my mind disrupted by watching too much TV, but I could feel Okinawa Karate man’s energy from my settee.

I believe that chi can be used for all sorts of amazing things including healing yourself and others.

The man who managed to hang a 150kg weight from his testicles can't be making it up.