Living for Disco

“Do you know who you are?” asks our guru, his soft voice seeming to drift into our minds without effort; the smell of incense permeates everything with a sense of calm.

“This body is just a costume. It is not who you are. You are a soul – whatever it is that looks out of your eyes, and hears with your ears, this is who you are. You must learn, through meditation, to harness the healing power of your energy, your soul.”

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry! We are late! Sorry!” says a voice that sounds as if it has been stretched and sandpapered almost out of existence. A man appears, his eyes bright and interested, dragging two girls in his wake. We all begin again, at the beginning. Throughout the introduction, he shuffles a collection of plastic bags around in his pocket, then gets out his mobile phone and turns it off. It plays a happy little tune.

“And so the soul has a number of original qualities, qualities that are buried under the acquired traits such as anger, greed…”

“Is my car alright outside?”, pipes up the Voice.

“Uh… what?” Our guru is momentarily derailed.

“My car. I parked it outside. Do the people in the next door house need to get out? Must I move it?”

“No, it’s ok. There is no-one living next door. Anyway, uh, where was I…”

“OK. Good, good.”

We practice a spot of guided meditation while staring at a point of light on the wall. It’s quite amazing, actually – I feel a sense of power that makes me almost euphoric. I’m not sure it’s supposed to do this – at one point I actually feel as if I could destroy things just by looking at them, but I’m not convinced meditation is supposed to be about destruction. I feel that this is something I should work on.

We finish, and all sit feeling serene; all except one. “So at the end of the course, will I be able to see angels and things floating all around me?” he asks excitedly.

Our guru patiently tells him that he has maybe missed the point. “You are the angel,” he explains to the clearly baffled man. “Angels are just other human beings. You have to learn not to look at the things around you. The point is to look inside and find your inner angel.”

“Right. OK. No angels.” He looks a bit disappointed. Some minutes pass in relative calm, as the guru tells us all about the ‘university’ and its courses.

“That guy - is he the one that was on his way to Namibia, but then he got stopped at the border and deported, because he had all these meditation things with him?” He is pointing to a picture of a serene looking Indian man that is hanging on the wall. It looks as if it was taken at least 40 years ago, and is, I assume, of the founder of the organisation. Our guru is starting to look a bit bemused.

I start staring at the point of light again, so that I won’t snort snot out of my nose. I am still a bit snotty, and I don’t think that it would go down well with anyone, really. Also I have no tissues. I don’t want it to be like one of my A-level history lessons when my friend Chrissy made me laugh so much I had to pretend to have a nose-bleed.

When I tune back in he is trying to get everyone all excited about the next session. “Come on people, we must finish this course! No hanging around. We have to finish!” I think that he has probably decided to get to the end of the course and see for himself whether the angels appear, as he does seem particularly eager to get it all finished. I don’t understand how he can be so perky – I feel almost catatonic with calm and well-being.

We eventually agree, amid some confusion, to meet again on Saturday, and slowly file out into the frangipani-scented evening air.

I’ve been nominated for post of the week! It’s very exciting. The winner will be announced on Sunday. Like the oscars. I am preparing a speech.

Thank you Adrian, for nominating me.

Update! I didn’t make the shortlist. No Gwyneth Paltrow moments for me. [slopes off to take the gown back to the shop].

I think I may have mentioned that I have been a little bit down lately (for ‘lately’, read ’since last May’). I have been trying very hard to ignore the insidious whisperings that emanate from the dark side of my conciousness, but recently I’ve needed a little help. I have tended not to talk about it on here that much, because let’s face it, whinging is boring, and god forbid people think I was that.

So I enlisted a doctor, who gave me some pills. The pills made me sick for a while, and then they made me high. I am no longer high, which is occasionally a disappointment, but I expect it is for the best. My doctor’s bedside manner leaves something to be desired, though. Coming as I do from the UK, I would expect to be given some reason for the prescription of the particular brand of drug that was supposed to sort me out. My doctor just gave me the brand that seemed to sponsor his office accessories and so, a little sceptical of his motives, I looked it up. Apparently its side-effects include nausea (check), sleeplessness (check), constipation, anorexia, heart palpitations and… permanent dependence! Woo-hoo! When I phoned him up to express concern, he said “I knew I should have taken the information leaflet out of the box. Just take the bloody pills.”*

My doctor, in turn, enlisted a psychotherapist. My psychotherapist is lovely. She gives me free tissues and lets me blather on about myself for an hour a week. She gives me homework to do, which includes things like “Go to the supermarket” and “Clean out your fridge” - things I have been unable to face doing for some time. My fridge, thanks to her encouragement, no longer shelters the jar of gherkins that was in it when I moved in in November 2005, or the last cheese slice from the packet that I bought inadvisedly last January. My ex-bloke once promised me, when we were still together, that he would eat all of those repulsive plastic abominations so that they wouldn’t go to waste. I felt like sending it to him in the post, with a note saying “You missed one”.

My psychotherapist has in her turn enlisted a homeopath, who is also wonderful. She has given me a bottle of energised pills with ’sepia’ written on them, told me to assess my earthly gifts, and forbidden me from wearing stomach jewellery (except “on high days and holidays, and when you want to seduce someone”). She has also told me that I should no longer eat pies. I am still sceptical about this. Surely it cannot be right?

Anyway, there seems to be an army of people now looking out for my mental wellbeing, which makes me feel alternately comforted and guilty. I’m not about to go on and on about being depressed, as this is no fun for anyone, not even me and the good lord knows how I looove to talk about myself. However, it seems that it may be a part of my life that I have to accept if I want to get over it, so I’m not going to avoid the subject either.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of, after all.

*I did get a second opinion, in case you’re worried.

She put the ends of the stethoscope in her ears and told me to lift up my shirt; she said she wanted to listen to my liver. I fully expected that my liver would sense an opportunity for salvation and would be screaming “Help! Let me out of here!” as soon as the stethoscope descended, and hoped that it wouldn’t embarrass me.

Fortunately her attention was distracted. “Oh, dear, dear, dear no” she said, pointing an accusing finger at what I was about to discover is my manipura chakra, which controls higher emotion and energy.

It appears that one of the problems I have been having in combating depression is that I have a metal object stuck right in the very centre of my spiritual being.

If I want to get better, I’m going to have to remove my belly-button ring.

I came out of the pick’n'pay carrying a bag with my lunch in it (chicken and mushroom pie, bag of grapes, in case you’re interested), and got on my bike. As I wheeled it past a parked bakkie, I realised that the enormous woman inside it was addressing me.

“Hello miss”, she said in a heavy South African accent. “Are you from overseas?”

I replied that I am.

“I thought so. Hi, my name is Esther, and I’m from South Africa, and the white women here, they don’t drive bicycles. It is too hot. We like the car.” She looked at me as if my poor brain had been addled by too much sun, and as a result I was letting white women all over the world down by being seen to pedal in public.

I didn’t know quite how to respond to her. I kept to myself that if she cycled a couple of times a week she wouldn’t now look as if she was about to expire from heart failure simply from sitting in the truck while her husband went to buy 15 tons of cattle feed from the farm store round the corner.

So I smiled and said “Yes, I noticed”.