Part One

'If you meet the Buddha on the road - kill him!' Such is the diktat issued by Zen Buddhism in one of its most outrageous moments. Designed to confront the student with his or her preconceptions about 'spiritual life', to shake the meditator out of complacency and slumber, 'Killing the Buddha' appealed directly to Liberty Fox and my sense of what 'spirituality' is all about. 

'Killing the Buddha' is concerned with taking it all seriously - deadly seriously - but not in the wrong way. Play the spiritual game, always remembering that it is indeed a game, not to be taken as an absolute reality. It's a way, the means, not the end or thing in itself. It's the finger pointing at the moon, as Zen explains elsewhere. So don't get too attached to any of it. Not even the Buddha.

Drawing on this iconoclastic spirit of Zen, and confecting it with a notion from Castaneda, that of 'calculated folly', Liberty and I evolved the institution of 'Folly on Friday'. We were both by nature pretty ethical in our dealings with others. It occurred to us, however, not to get too hung up on 'being good'. So, every Friday, it was incumbent upon us, as a completely conscious act, to do something 'bad'.

Our acts of folly were, in the main, not very serious: minor acts of theft; crafty white lies or deceptions; an obligation unfulfilled. All, however, were performed in the fullness of awareness. We were, at heart, free beings. Our inner freedom constituted our positivity, and was demonstrated by our ability to commit folly.

It was after evening meal on Fridays that Liberty and I would exchange reports on our follies of the day. Dave had retired to his room to play guitar or listen to the radio, while Mottie headed into town, leaving us the living room for swapping our stories.

Regardless of the day of the week, evening time regularly provided magical conversation for Liberty and me. With dishes washed, saucepans cleaned and put away, we would turn on the gas fire (during the colder months) and regale each other with tales of the weird, the outlandish, the conventionally impossible. Still peckish after a day of work, I would arm myself with a slice or two of dense wholemeal bread. Just moistened with warm water from the kettle, no need for butter or margarine; this small detail summarises the attitude of the commune.

Castaneda, Zen; Govinda, David-Neel; shamans, pagans, ancient holders of perennial wisdom. These formed our inspirations and practical day-to-day guides, teaching us how life could be lived infinitely better than was the norm in conventional society. While Liberty Fox specialised in astrology, astronomy, magic, Egyptian and ancient European wisdom, I majored in Buddhism, Hinduism, Castaneda, and psychedelic culture. Between us, we were unstoppable.

As to many others in the more mystically-inclined corners of the 1970s counterculture, Carlos Castaneda was a staple. Liberty and I lapped up the stories of Castaneda's encounters with the sorcerer Don Juan and the clownish but awesomely powerful Don Genaro. We studied carefully and conscientiously the content of Castaneda's first three books - 'The Teachings of Don Juan', 'A Separate Reality', and 'Journey to Ixtlan' - then discussed them at length.

Many of the notions elucidated within these volumes spoke eloquently to our sense of the wider reality existing beyond 'normal', limited experience. Accessing the crack between the worlds, undertaking the task of learning to 'see'; becoming a Man of Knowledge. Thus was outlined the way ahead.

'Journey to Ixtlan', the third volume in Castaneda's work, is also the most practical, introducing a trove of strategies which set Liberty and me on fire. Acting impeccably. Adopting the attitude of a warrior. Losing self-importance. We set about putting these teachings into practice in our everyday lives. We also clued up on 'the gait of power', a way of moving rapidly over uneven ground by using a particular posture and mode of running. We tried it out one blackened winter's night, over rough ploughed fields near Liberty's old house in Surrey. Neither of us ended up in hospital... 

Part Two 

As far as Buddhism was concerned, the largely monastic Theravada had practically zero appeal: gaunt and crusty, dry and dusty. Far more relevant to our style were the colourful and sometimes provocative characters of Tibetan Buddhism. Milarepa, the Mahasiddhas and other mad, bug-eyed mystics and sages. Mantras, yantras, tantras, the magic symbology of Enlightenment. From the viewpoint of (ab)normality, wisdom was crazy, and this was conveyed magnificently by the teachers and teachings of these Tibetan tantrics.

Lama Govinda and Alexandra David-Neel were major informants. Liberty and I mused in wonder at yogic feats such as gtum-mo, the development of inner heat, and lung-gom, rapid walking. Our raps centred not on whether such activities could be performed - that was taken as read -, but on how precisely such achievements might be accomplished. Could we do this stuff ourselves? How? Given the magical nature of reality, and how it consisted of different vibrations of energy, it was a matter of focussing awareness sufficiently in order to bring about these transformations. With the training, the discipline, it would surely be no problem.

Zen was a little less crazy, yet no less iconoclastic. This was certainly the impression conveyed by philosopher-mystic Alan Watts. 'The Way of Zen' was our prime sourcebook on the topic, and Watts therein performed the miracle of making the abstruse and metaphysical both readable and absorbing.

A major spin-off from the Zen studies was the instigation of the commune Zen Tea Ceremony. Performed in Japan for centuries, the tea ceremony provided a haven of tranquility and clear awareness from the hustle, bustle, and general fug of everyday life.

By using a collection of sheets and blankets fixed to walls and ceiling light fittings with tape and hooks, we would construct a spacious tent within our living room. It was a sacred space, separate from the outside world, and it would house our afternoon ceremony. A few carefully selected friends would be invited to attend, and sit in mindful silence as either Liberty or I took on the role of tea master, preparing tea for each guest individually, pouring it will full awareness into their little drinking bowl or cup, whence it would be drunk in total silence.

The tea ceremonies evoked a sense of pure, clear awareness in the participants; an aura of magic would envelop proceedings. Even the normally sceptical Dave was won over by the crystal-like simplicity of the occasion. 

The pure and natural, undefiled nature of consciousness which emerged in the ceremony was the thing. Then, one day, French Phil and a few buddies turned up with some dope, and with Paul Red-Eyes proceeded to get stoned in the middle of the event. The magic was gone, destroyed. We never held another tea ceremony after that.     

Images: Mahasiddha Tilopa

              Carlos Castaneda

              Tea Ceremony