Motorway Dreamer 05.pdf

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is

done,

The ship has weathered every wrack,

the prize we sought is won

But O Heart! Its.........

Motorway Dreamer is is “ edited” and published by

John Nielsen Hall

Please direct all contributions,letter of comment and bondage small ads, to:

Coachman's Cottage, Marridge Hill

Ramsbury, Wilts SN8 2HG U.K.

E-mail: rrr5646@yahoo.co.uk

In This Issue:

Editorial

Twice Now

Page 3

Waiting For Dardo

Strange stuff with big

words by the big idiot

Page 4

Obligatory Poetry

Section

Finally, some outside input

Page 24

Back Seat Drivers

LoC's by the very select

band of folk who actually

read this publication

Page 29

Art & Picture Credits

Cover

Dan Steffan

Pages 3 &34

Brian Zaikowski

Page 4

Steve Brown

Page 26

Steve Harris

Page 28

Bjo Trimble

Everything else....

Shamelessly pirated from the web or clip-art

Motorway Dreamer is an Electronic Printed Fanzine. The

Electronic version is available at eFanzines.com by the grace

of Bodhisattva Bill Burns. That is also where all the previous

issues live. If you are holding in your hands a printed copy

this is because:

You have Locced

You have contributed to this or past issues

You are a fellow faned. Salutations from the great beyond of ish future!

You have asked for a copy ( Its up to you now)

I have decided it should be inflicted upon you out of a dark vengeance. ( Only you

know whether you will get another issue)

EDITORIAL

The theme of this issue is creativity. A lot of fans think fandom is about different things. I hope

some at least will agree that it is about creativity. Those of us who have tried to be writers may

not have what it takes, but if fanzines exist for any purpose, they must exist to give a platform

for those who like to write, even for those who write without hope of being widely read but still

write anyway. I number myself in that company, and this issue I am going to inflict upon you some

fiction of my own, not because I think its marvellous and want you all to be blinded by my genius,

( though, you know, feel free....) but because it was in me and it had to come out,deformed and

defective though I know it to be.

Then there is the poetry, which suddenly issued forth from various unexpected quarters. Poetry in

fanzines has often been an embarrassment, and it seems almost to have disappeared. I have said

before that I want it back, not merely because I still write it, but also because I know its still a

secret vice practised by many, and I don't think it should be secret any more. I hope that if you

read this issue, you too will send your furtive scribblings to me, and if you do, I may even print

them.

John Nielsen Hall

(Authors Note: There really was once a Tibetan teacher called Dardo Rinpoche. Although it might be

that a true Tantric adept can be in two places at once,the Dardo Rinpoche in this story is not him.

Indeed, nobody is anybody.)

“ ...........I'm unfaithful, lying, full of deceit. I'm completely out of control, I sometimes think. I cant have

any kind of normal relationship with a woman. Sex is all that's on my mind.”

“ But you are in control, aren't you? I mean, its not like you've ever raped anyone.”

“No. Though I expect I am guilty of coercion, on occasion.”

“So its just being unfaithful?”

“Yeah. I made a promise and I cant keep it.”

“ Its the same with me. I'm a disappointment to my mother. I want to be the daughter she wants me to

be – well, some of that person at least. But I cant stay with anyone. I cant even share a house with other

girls for very long. I feel trapped and I feel like there's something missing.”

“ Do you think the answers will be forthcoming, when we get where we are going?”

“Oh, John, I so hope so. Really I do.”

The sun was setting, and the clouds outside the window looked red and purple and so many other odd

colours. The plane adjusted its course, and the wing visible through the window lifted slightly as if

saluting the coming dark. It was a beautiful sight, but there was something unsettling about it too. We

were flying into darkness.

********************************************

The bus journey up from Calcutta had not been an unalloyed pleasure. The bus stopped a lot and was sun-

bright,hot and crowded with only hard seats. Vimalakirti, being an ordained member of a Buddhist order,

wore his robes- something he would never do back home. Seeing him, sitting upright and apparently

serene the locals were very respectful. Olivia, Liz and I sat with him and maybe basked in his reflected

glory, though we were more aware than they how much the outward appearance masked the suppressed

irritation which slowly grew to a fury. Mostly Vim was irritated by us, I think. Liz nodded her head to

the Who cassette permanently rotating in her Walkman, occasionally emitting a ghastly drone of

“hoooareyou hoo hoo hoo hoo” as she “sang” along, earning a basilisk glance from Vim at the back of her

frazzled dirty red hair,held down by the spring steel of the headphones. I was a greasy sweaty disgrace

in my frayed Hot Rod Magazine T-Shirt and dusty jeans, reading The Lord Of the Rings, which he

regarded as insufficiently spiritually uplifting, though I begged to differ. Olivia, who sat right next to

him, spent all her time looking out of the window. India was still new to her , and she still pointed and

exclaimed at elephants, ornately painted trucks and roadside temples, her round face illuminated by her

wide smile, her long black hair untouched as yet by the surrounding dust and heat. She was a warm

patchouli scented cloud of innocent wonder – when probably she should have been discussing the far

reaches of the paramita's with Vim so that he could impress her with his undoubtedly amazing erudition

and wisdom.

But the very worst thing for Vim was the entertainment provided on this luxury long distance bus- hours

of Bollywood videos playing from cheap Jap TV's screwed into brackets that hung over the aisle, the

screens an endless mass of distorted eye-popping colour as love struck gorgeously saree'd heroines,

choruses of turbaned and moustachioed males and under dressed heroes and villains sang and danced at

volume. About twelve hours into the journey, he had risen from his seat and marched to the front of the

bus, where he politely but firmly requested a cessation or at least, a respite. The driver assured him

that it would shortly come to an end, but as the sun began to set, and the road started to ascend into

the hills, the Bollywood songs still endlessly succeeded one another. Women on the bus sometimes

sweetly sang along, just loud enough for the relatives and friends around them to hear. Sometimes the

men also sang at the appropriate moment in duets, of which there very many. It seemed as if the only

people not enjoying the videos were the miserable westerners – and even one of them – Olivia - was

watching, even if she did not sing.

Vim waited about an hour after his first request, and then rose from his seat once more. Arriving at the

front of the bus, he bellowed “ Just turn the fucking thing off!!” The tentative singing stopped and

there was a hushed silence, save for the beat of the screens and the drone of the bus engine. I

surmised that not everybody understood English, or even Anglo Saxon, but a Bhikku should not behave as

Vim was behaving. Lips were compressed, eyes were averted. “ Come and sit down, Vim” I said quietly,

and such was the hush, my voice carried all the way up the aisle to where Vim was standing. Red faced,

he came and sat, looking neither to right nor left. The TV screens went dark and lapsed into silence at

last.

Liz,who had long ago dispensed with her Walkman, now raised her voice, and in the sonorous tones of her

native Sydney, recited from memory “Like a fire, his mind constantly blazes up into good works for

others; at the same time he remains merged in the calm of the trances and formless attainments.” She

rolled her eyes and added an overblown hand gesture to this text, dripping with heavy sarcasm.

As she sat in front of him, Vim half stood and leant over, his lower lip quivering a bit and his cheeks red

with anger. “Texts are not bullets for you to shoot me with!”he said “There are always consequences, and

they may terrible if scripture is misused.” I laid a restraining hand on Vim's arm and applied a slight

pressure to urge him to sit down again. He did so, but the rest of the journey, through the night with

only two more stops, passed in a most un-Indian silence. People pretended to sleep, but did not.

It was still dark when we got to where we were going. We were now way up in the hills, indeed the town

which we were heading for had been a Hill Station in the days of the Raj. We stood by the side of the

road where the bus had dropped us hoping someone would turn up who might sell us a hot drink. The air

was cold and now we were shiveringly under dressed for the conditions. It was too early for the tea-

vendors apparently, so in the dark Vim, who knew the way from his last visit, led us off up a road that

wound far above us. The suns light came in advance of the disc itself, pinkly creeping through clefts and

passes high up in mountains far off across the valley to our right. Clouds were below us, fir and pine

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: