Spillage

I was going to take it easy till the end of the year, but things that need to be done are crowding up around me. Work for my course, Kamalashila’s taxes, preparations for work gigs in January. And all of this before I go to the Netherlands for two weeks. So I was all set for a day of plugging away on various bits and pieces until I spilled tea over my laptop. It seemed ok at first. But half a day later the keyboard had gone mad and was selecting random keys. Which meant I could not log into my laptop after I restarted it. Which meant I had to figure out how to log in without using the keyboard or somehow access the back-up device. Which meant I had to root around for cables and resort to using Kamalashila’s laptop, setting myself up as a new user and then fitting it out with all the relevant data and applications. I am using his external keyboard, his cables, his laptop. I have managed to log into my old laptop now, so at least I have access to my data (the back-up option scarily failed). This is definitely not what I need. This is however what I get. The bath is beckoning, but I am resisting. Or delaying. 

I have been feeling a bit sad because everything that Kamalashila has touched and configured is getting lost. When I was looking at the sockets behind his cupboard I was excited to notice a few things had fallen behind the shelves. They seemed like secret messengers. A small bag of Walker crisps. A few tea lights. A small empty box. And what an enormous treat: something else was stuck behind the drawers he used for his socks and unmentionables. With a bit of wriggling I discovered it was a book that had fallen off a shelf. It eventually appeared from its hiding place: Tsongkhapa, A Buddha in the Land of Snows by Thupten Jinpa. It seems to have been bought in a retreat centre for 27 pounds and it has an old leaflet for the West London Buddhist Centre in it. Yet its history is now lost. Was it a gift? Did he read it. Should I read it? More and more of my traces and patterns and configurations, less and less of his. Memories that have been lost forever. How relevant are they? How relevant is all this information that cannot be accessed anymore. It seems I am clinging and need to let go. But I cannot say I am ready. And I definitely need more time.