Glesca Koans

Tags

99 cone, bhikkuni, birlin' yer wilkies, Chi-Tien, Chick Murray, Dalai Lama, Flake, Gilmorehill, Glasgow patter, Glesca, Huanglong, Irn Bru, Iron Duke, Jakushitzu, koan, laryngitis, Nirvana, Parliamo Glesca, pokey-hat, Rab C Nesbitt, Royal Exchange Square, Saltcoats, satori, Stanley Baxter, The Drunken Buddha, Wuman

(Wikipedia Creative Commons.  99 cone with Monkey Blood sauce:

Handbridge, Chester: 31/7/2009 by nikoreto)

 

As recent readers are aware, I have been fascinated with all

things Japanese in the past month or so.  I came across Zen parables

in the midst of all my reading and was amused by the word ‘koans.’

Somehow it reminded me of a Glaswegian pronunciation of ice

cream cornets.  Then I envisaged a conversation between a ‘Glesca

philosopher’ – a glorified Rab C Nesbitt and his side-kick- and so I

thought I’d share it with you:

(Sorry about the formatting- it looks great in

Edit and then won’t transfer properly)

KOANS ‘n’ a’ that

Wullie:   So whit’s this Philosophy course yer doin’?

Jimmy:    Uch, Ah’ve always wanted tae dae some studyin’ at ra Uni.

W: Whit huv ye learnt aboot?

J: Och, this week it wiz a’ aboot koans.

W: Pokey hats?

J: Whit?  Naw – koans.  K-O-A-N-S.  No like the ice-ey, ‘n ‘at. It’s when a psychological impasse is created an’ then yer intuition takes o’wer an’ ye get a satori.

W: Don’t tell everybody – they’ll a’ be wantin’ one. Ah kwite like stories, but it disnae mak’  sense tae me, aw this.

J:    It’s no’ meant tae make sense, ya muppet. It’s supposed tae be ‘an ineffable, deeply-affecting mental flash that illuminates the cosmos.’

W:  Like when ye first realise Irn-Bru isnae really made fae girders?  Or yer wean pokes a pencil in a soaket?

J: Haud oan!  Jakushitzu achieved it when he was slapped. Wuman says…

W: Aye wummen say too much!  Wan wumman- mah mammy- used tae slap me aboot the heid and said that wid cure me o’ the wisdom o’ emptiness. If it wis a school day, she ca’d it a rude awakening.

J: Mebbe she wis a bit o’ a … philosopher?

W: Ah dinnae ken aboot that, but she was devoted tae windae  hingin.’  That wis her particular form o’ meditation.

J:  A bhikkuni?

W:  Naw, she preferred a wan piece: a piece an’ jam, actually.  She developed her mantras oan the beach.  I called it her pokey-hat philosophy.  That’s how I got it mixed up wi’ yon  koans.  See, Ah asked her why Ah could only hiv a ’99’ and no’ a ‘100.’

J:  Whit did she say?

W:  She said perfection didnae exist in sublunary Saltcoats. And when I complained that the ice cream didnae go a’ the way doon tae the bottom o’ the cone, she telt me that wiz because Ah wuz tae gie the dug the last bit o’ nothingness. Aye, an’ if Ah drapped it on the grass, she said Ah hud two choices: take it; or leave it.

J: Huanglong…..

W:  ….is a piece o’ string?  Aye, that wiz wan o’ her favourites.

J: Ach, awright, Ah’m aff tae the pub.  Comin’?

W: Ah didnae think ye’d be allowed….  Yer religion, like….

J: Nae bother.  Huv ye never heard of The Drunken Buddha?

W: Who?

J: Chi-Tien… He took aff a’ his claes until he wiz in his bare scud and then he burl’d his wulkies in front of his superiors. Granted it wiz a different culture and century.  Ye only get that type o’ behaviour at airports noo, or thirty-eight thousand feet up, but monks like Chi-Tien reckoned non-conformity wuz a good thing. Ah widnae put it past the Dalai Lama either, though he might draw a line  at burlin’ wulkies an a’ that.

W: Ach, we’re no’ Zenophobic in Glesca, but we dinna care tae let it a’ hing oot.  We’re no’ really intae the moment; we dae the past far mair effectively.  Changin’ the subject, though, if it comes tae a cone, Ah must admit tae  likin’ a Flake and some fake raspberry sauce.

(he clears his throat.)

J: Crushed nuts?

W: Naw, laryngitis!  (They laugh.)  Stanley Baxter- classic.It might huv been Chick Murray, but Ah’m no’ arguin’ the toss.

J: Naw, doan’t.  We Buddhists dinnae go in fur conflict.  Ah kin show  ye a koan, by the way.  It’s jist roon the coarner. Philosophers keep puttin’ it oan The Iron Duke’s heid.

W : Royal Exchange Square.  Right! Very funny!  Tell me whit’ they keep dain’ it fur.  Whit does it mean?

J: The same as a single end clappin’ : a tale tell’t by idiots, signifying zero.  It means we’re a’ bampots, or cone-heids.

W: Aye, well that’s hardly a revelation!  Ye don’t need tae huv been tae Gilmorehill tae work that wan oot.

J: Next week we’re dain’ Nirvana.  Literally it means ‘blowin’ oot.’

W:That puts me in the notion furra curry.

 

• pokey-hat- an ice cream cornet
• wean- child
• windae-hingin’ – leaning on a window sill to observe proceedings
• scud- ‘birthday suit’; state of nature
• birlin’ yer wulkies – somersault
• Gilmorehill- site of Glasgow University
• piece n’jam – bread and jam sandwich
• single end- type of accommodation
• ice-y – the ice cream van
• bampot- idiot

(Royal Exchange Square: Wikipedia

Image : Rept0n1x)

 

No Worries!

Tags

Alan Bennet, Barramundi, Barry Manilow, Billy Connolly, Blairgowrie, Blue-Eye, Brave, Carsten Holler, Castilian Spanish, Chai Latte, cone bra, Creole, David Shrigley, Eleftherios, Federation Square, Flinders lane, Frozen, Great Ocean Road, gum tree, heist, Ice, John Paul Gaultier, kanga bangas, koala, kookaburra, lingusitic convergence, McClelland Sculpture Park, Melbourne, Melchisedek, Mornington Peninsula, Mountain Goat Steam Ale, NGV International, no worries!, Panagia Kamariani, Pele Tower, Philip Larkin, Pidgin, possums, Poundland, Rab C Nesbitt, Red Claw, Red Hill Greek Orthodox monastery, rhinopithecus strykerl, sans soucis, shotgun wedding, snub nosed monkey, Sorrento, Talking Heads, The Island Bird by Neto, www.chrispattas.com, Yabby Lake, You'll Never Walk Alone

r

Dear Posse, or should that be ‘possums’?

You have probably all wondered why Candia has gone off radar,

but I haven’t got time to correspond with you individually. So,

maybe you can make do with reading the communal postcard I

sent to my dear girlfriends in Suttonford, who are probably even

now sharing its contents in Costamuchamoulah‘s must-seen

cafe, as they sip their Chai Lattes– an inferior blend to the original

which I have just imbibed in Flinders Lane, Melbourne.

You see, the price of an air mail stamp to Pomland- not to be

confused with Poundland- is almost as much as an additional glass

of Yabby Lake fizz for moi and, on this once- in-a-lifetime walkabout,

I am not about to downgrade to the Red Claw ‘drinkable’ variety.

So, G’day, mates! I’ve already been down The Great Ocean Road;

seen my first koala in the wild- thankfully unaccompanied by Putin,

One Direction, or Obama- gawped at a joey peeping out of a row of

vines and consumed my first Blue-Eye and Barramundi.  The latter

sounds like Barry Manilow, but is infinitely more subtle.  As far as I

know, it doesn’t attempt to sing.  I do seem to remember Big

Mouth Billy, the singing sea bass, so maybe one could form a

connection.

It’s so good to relax and the upgrade to Business Class from

Singapore was a down-payment of future bliss.  It took a few

moments before I realised that I was watching ‘Brave‘ in Castilian

Spanish on the back of the seat in front, but my personally

appointed steward soon tuned me in to the appropriate lingo.

Better than a remote in the control of The Husband and a tad

more obliging.  It’s good to be treated better than Dame Edna

Average.

I see Billy Connolly is coming to Melbourne shortly. The Scots’

community should comprehend his repartee, but no doubt his

Antipodean spouse has taught him a little linguistic convergence,

so the audience should probably work out that he is not speaking

some kind of Pidgin, or Creole.  Anyway, hybridisation and cross-

fertilisation seem to be the name of the game over here.  One minute

you are in Sorrento and the next you are driving through Blairgowrie.

Talk about fusion!

The Husband grew some roots in Federation Square as he

downed a Mountain Goat Steam Ale, while riveting his gaze

on the big screen’s events at the MCG and demolishing some

Kanga Bangas.

While Gus, Virginia, Diana, Murgatroyd, Dru and Nigel are

snowed in at the pele tower in The Borders, The Husband

and I are experiencing four seasons in one day down in The

Mornington Peninsula.  The chattering classes of Suttonford

have been silenced by the maniacal laughter of a kookaburra,

who stereotypically does sit in an old gum tree, as well as

crapping all over the garden fence every morning.  But, sans

soucis!  Even the mynahs’ cackles are shriller than some South

of England socialites.

I know I said that I only sent one postcard, but that isn’t

strictly true.

I did send Juniper a card of Jean Paul Gaultier’s teddy bear,

which he has cherished since the age of three and which sports

his prototype cone bra.

She would have loved the holographic talking heads on his models

in The NGV.  So would Alan Bennet!  Maybe I should have sent him a

postcard too, but he’s probably a friend of the designer and gets a

personalised one.

Even church-going is a lot more exciting here.  I don’t think Philip

Larkin would have been as lugubrious if he had removed his cycle

clips and gone into the Red Hill Greek Orthodox Monastery of Panagia

Kamariani.

The priest told me that his Christian name- ‘Eleftherios‘ means ‘Liberty’

and he certainly takes a few.  I mean, back in Suttonford, the staid

congregation are startled out of their professed sobriety by the

ringing of a ship’s bell; the crashing of the organ and a cacophany of

bells in the Easter Saturday service in Wintoncester Cathedral.  But

Father Tatsis is much more melodramatic.  Look up http://www.chrispattas.

com and you can see a Youtube clip of the sacerdotal gesture of

celebration to the pronouncement: He is Risen!  Brings a whole new

angle to the phrase ‘shotgun wedding‘!It is a pity that the latter day

Melchisedek didn’t wield his weapon at the teenage thugs who raided

the icon’s golden votive jewellery collection and who made off with a

heist worth $100,000.  Failing that, he could have maybe stowed the

stuff in a safe.  Unfortunately there is Ice in Paradise and I don’t mean

anything as innocent as the latest Frozen movie.

The liberating thing about Oz seems to be that you can act like a big

kid and you are actually encouraged to do so.  Case in point:  The

Husband climbing into the art installation The Island Bird by Ernesto

Neto at The NGV International.

He got tangled up in what appeared to be an unravelled string shopping

bag, or a coloured version of Rab C Nesbitt’s vest.  I was more attracted

by Carsten Holler’s golden, mirrored carousel and managed to restrain myself

from breaking into You’ll Never Walk Alone, though, if I had, it would have been

regarded as a valid interactional response. Like Oz itself, even the artwork

invites us to stand on our heads and re-imagine the world, reconsidering our

place within it.

So, whether it is wallpapering a gallery with anarchic David Shrigley

observations, or sculpting a Sneezing Snub Nosed Monkey -Rhinopithecus

strykerl (McClelland Sculpture Park), the infectious Aussie irreverent take

on life affects even its Un-Orthodox priests and makes one feel that,

indeed, there are No Worries!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaachoooooooooooooooooooooooo!!

I Am What I Ate

Tags

Andrew Fairlie, Commonwealth Games, Cullen Skink, Glasgow, Gleneagles Hotel, Irn Bru, Jammie Dodgers, Loch Fyne, Rab C Nesbitt, Scotland

The Commonwealth Games are coming to Glasgow in 2014 and more than 2 million meals will have to be prepared for athletes, officials, staff and spectators.  However, Ah hae ma doots that the 100 plus tonnes of fruit and veg that are being ordered will necessarily go doon a treat.

Save the Children co-ordinator, Malcolm Clark, has been reported as saying that there should be a junk food ban.  Many will respond:  Ach, away an’ bile yer heid.

Rural Affairs Secretary, Richard Lochhead said: 

There will be unprecedented opportunities to showcase the magnificent produce Scotland has to offer.

There will be a Food and Drink AGM in Perth, so close to Andrew Fairlie’s eponymous restaurant at The Gleneagles Hotel. However, I don’t think his signature lobster dish- its shell smoked in whisky, as if you didn’t know, will be featured in the biodegradable cardboard takeaway dishes of the Games themselves.  Nor do I see Celtic Fish and Game and all things feathered and sustainable being up there in the hot desires of Rab C Nesbitt and Co.

Candia was once a student at a Scottish University, in the gloaming of time and so she can recall seeing some graffiti sprayed on the exterior of the students’ refectory and it read:

You Are What You Eat

And that is a very frightening concept.

Just over a week ago now, I was contemplating a journey north and felt compelled to express in verse my anticipation of the culinary delights of Alba.

I Am What I Ate

I’m returning to the land of shortbread-

(Petticoat Tails, the Peek Frean Custard Cream)-

where, for many years I had ingested

more Jammie Dodgers than in sweet-toothed dream;

Lorne sausage, Stovies, Co-op jam

stirred into semolina, mutton pies,

mince n’ tatties, neeps, pan peeces, flaccid Spam,

school custard, tablet- then, to appetise,

Black Bun.  If I felt a wee bit faddy;

Barr’s Irn Bru, a Paterson oatcake

with a Loch Fyne kipper; a Finnan haddie

gar’d me grue. Bottles of ginger would slake

my thirst and, if I was in a paddy,

you could shut me up wi’ a soor green ploom.

On Fridays we had something Ruskolined,

Cock-a-Leekie, Clootie Dumpling, sheep’s womb,

Tunnock’s wafers, Lees’ Snowballs, but now weaned

off those pokes of chips, black pudding slices,

I spread my Low Fat Flora very thin.

Childhood diet no longer entices,

yet I am what I ate- there’s nae denying

the place the skillet had in all our hearts.

Arteries were clogged through constant frying

by strangers to the culinary arts.

But Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled don’t shrink

fae food wae names like bannock, Cullen Skink.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012