Well it seems that Zaadz has added a blog function. Pretty nifty, except I already have a blog over at vomitingconfetti.blogspot.com (shameless plug), so instead of writing about theory and sports and stuff, I'll write more personal things over here, without resorting to too much self-obsessed noodling.

For now, some ruminations on fruit picking.

There are some interesting guys and girls who work with me. One of my bosses managed to swear seven times in the same sentence. I'm not adverse to the occasional profanity, but swearing seven times in one go takes a very special effort. By the end of it you'll feel like an unwashed pirate.

Another guy invented a brand new city, "Bombaydos", a cross between Barbados and Bombay, presumably in India, and no doubt a city which would have the world's best cricket team, not to mention food.

One of the things that fruit picking has been playing havoc with is my ITP (oldschool ITP, though I'm due for an upgrade to the shiny happy ILP in January). It's one thing to get up early in the morning, another to get up early to finish the Kata plus meditation when you have to leave for work at 7:15am, another thing again when you're the type of vampire who routinely goes to bed at way past midnight. I'd do it in the afternoon, but 7 hours of picking leads to constant back pain, thanks to a comically misshapen spine. Still, I'm getting there, and one of these days I'll become a fully fledged morning person.

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If you're reading this, feel free to add me to your friends list. I only know Coolmel and Dashh thanks to the magic of the internet. So give me a buzz, and join the Tuff Ghost posse.

Strawberry Satori

In Grace and Grit, Wilber said that whilst working as a dishwasher (and grocery bagger, and various other jobs we'd usually call 'menial') that he tried to bring the Zen idea of dignity to everything he did, "Chop water, carry wood". Perhaps not only dignity, but a mindfulness to tasks we'd happily call mindless most of the time.

Strawberry picking is certainly menial. It's not fun, but it sure is honest work. The harder you work, the more you get paid, so the temptation is to put the body on a speedy autopilot and send your mind on a wondrous journey. That's my usual strategy (so far I've mentally written half a book, several essays and lyrics to my debut hip-hop single whilst picking. I've also mock-interviewed myself winning an Oscar, The Booker Prize, and running my own soccer themed TV comedy show) but occasionally my mind will bring itself back to the present moment. It doesn't happen all the time, and never with any great extended contemplative awareness, but enough that it's become something of a habit.

Thich Nhat Hanh, in Jesus and the Buddha as Brothers, wrote of a bell being sounded every day that would bring workers back to their ever present awareness of the present moment. It's a good practise to get into - not to expect wonders, but just every so often to come back from dreamworld to the present moment - and one that seems to grow the more you meditate. It's as if the mind wants to naturally free, and desires immediacy. Granted, it's not perfect, and I love to daydream, but it's nice to have a balance.

Of course, one time something a bit more profound did happen. Usually when picking the temperature is between 30 and 40 degree centigrade (you crazy Americans with your whacky Farenheit, work it out yourselves), in other words, hot. However, this particular day happened to be cold as all snow hell, windy, and pouring down with some mean ass edgy rain. You can't really drift off in those sort of conditions, so my awareness was a bit more razor sharp.

Without warning, the old crown Chakra starts to a buzz like a bee (this hadn't happened to me for ages) and my vision became very dreamlike. Not fuzzy and hazy, but as if reality was extending itself out from my "Self". All a bit weird, but nonetheless very pleasant.

So I recommend that as a bit of a practise (though I'm sure you all do something similar). When the going gets boring, just bring it back every now and then.

Just a quick note on today's fruit picking:

I now have the next week off thanks to Christmas, so my back can slowly begin to heal itself, only to be cruelly twisted back out of shape come 2006.

One of my favourite pickers (the fellow who invented the word "Bombaydos") has taken to calling our resident Indian picker "The Black Turtle" in the style of a comic book superhero. Not only that, but he recited the traditional nursery rhyme "Humpty Dumpty" in the following manner.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
THEN ALL THE LITTLE NINJA TURTLES CAME AND KICKED ALL THE PIECES

Sometimes I marvel at the human brain.

Despite the rampant materialism of the Christmas season (which apparently now extends as far back as October), I'm still a sucker for the Christmas aesthetic. Maybe it's because my family doesn't go overboard when it comes to presents (One newspaper story stated the average amount spent on presents by one person is about 600 dollars Australian. That's a little bit insane), or maybe it's because in Adelaide Christmas is usually white hot, a dry heat with no humidity and no rain. As such, all the White Christmas paraphernalia is a little bit more remote, and thus a little bit less hokey. Either way, I'm a sucker for it.

I love the busy crowds and the bustle of the city in the last week before Christmas. I love how daytime TV is nothing but a menagerie of overbearing Christmas movies, in which young children or cynical adults learn the true meaning of Christmas, whilst the opening credits always burst discreetly into fine white snow. I love stuffing yourself to the point of unconsciousness with food. I love the anticipation.

Seasons greetings to you all.

Well, I need a Camera that works.

You see, I have the greatest Christmas day prank IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD planned for tomorrow morning. My girlfriend, a beautiful woman who enjoys her sleep-ins, is to be rudely awakened by the thumping beats of the Crazy Frog "Jingle Bells" song at 6.00am. Not only that, but my two brothers, father, mother, and next door neighbour will burst in, filming the entire thing and dancing like some deranged vaudevillian psychopath. I think Jesus would have given this a massive two thumbs up.

In the words of Krusty the Klown, Have a merry Christmas, A Krazy Kwanzaa, A Happy Hanukah, A Tip Top Tet, and a solemn dignified Ramadan.

Peace out.

I'm off to the beach to recover from a severe case of too much Christmas food.

The prank went off as planned, but possibly not quite as hilarious as when cooked up the night before.

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Just a final note about Christmas: It seems Hollywood has recently discovered that large segments of the Christian populace actually like going to movies instead of burning witches at the stake. Hence the heavy focused marketing of the new Narnia movie amongst American (and Australian) congregations. I don't think this is a particularly joyous day for the religious as much as it another exercise in Hollywood cynicism. There's a new resource to mine, so expect all manner of subtle and not so subtle 'religious' themed movies in the years to come.

Not that every movie about Christ has to be The Passion pt. 2 (Let he who is without sin KICK THE FIRST ASS). I was thinking that, given the discrepancies in the Christmas story between the gospels, one potentially interesting movie would be a retelling of the Christmas story from those four overlapping yet sometwhat distinct perspectives (and if you want to add some spice, perhaps a "Q" version or something along the lines of the Gospel according to Thomas, not that it mentions the Christmas story, but you get the idea). Think of it as the Gospel according to Kurosawa (working title: A very Rashomon Christmas).