Blue Weekend
John Rodgers

Blue Weekend

Fiction & Poetry

Voters Rating 11 / 1000



Blue Weekend is a comic novel based on a Buddhist meditation weekend. Brendan, a feckless under achiever, is completely ignorant of the aesthetics and is driven there by the lust of Patricia. She is driven by a deep love and compassion for all living beings. Unfortunately, for him, this doesn’t extent specifically to Brendan who quickly realises he doesn’t want to be there.

What could possibly go wrong?

What ensues is a light-hearted investigation of the Western mind, Buddhism and meditation meeting an Irish man whose driving force is hedonism.

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Brendan had tried meditating in the mornings.  When he got up on time, without a hangover, and when he remembered.  Which amounted to never.

This mediation was called ‘clear blue sky’.  So, there he sat, cross-legged - a bit too self-consciously - he thought, half-closed his eyes and focused on the breath coming and going from the tip of his Greek-like nose.

Or so he liked to think.  Shite, shouldn’t think.  Each time a thought comes it’s like a cloud passing on the clear blue sky of his mind’s canvas.  Let it go. He began identifying the clouds as nimbostratus or that one cirro… what’s it called?  Never mind.  Shite, shouldn’t think about clouds.

Now there’s a drip coming down his left nostril. Why don’t all the other meditators have a runny nose?  Is there some remote place that they go to get their drips removed?  ‘Remove drips forever through spiritual guidance’ in the morning session and ‘attaining enlightenment in 2 hours’ in the afternoon.  Break for lunch.

Crap. Thinking again. He wondered if dark clouds and would lead to rain in his head?  Boy, I wish I was cool.  Must do some yoga he determined.  Wonder how long we’ve been going now?

Blue, damn it. Think blue! Now thoughts of what they might feed him for dinner. Better get some deep and meaningful thing to say over the lentils.  Got to be.  Nailed on.  And water.  Can’t they drink juice?  Wonder if mindfulness and meanness are intrinsically linked

His nose now felt like it was on fire.  Every tissue of his being wanted to wipe the drip.  Everyone must see it.  Can’t wipe it.  Dead giveaway.  They’d all know he was a fraud who couldn’t really meditate - but had once read Hermann Hesse. 

Blue, for God’s sake, BLUE.  Concentrate.  Blue clear sky, no clouds.  They’re just thoughts.  He thought.  He reckoned if dinner wasn’t up to it he might sneak into town for Big Mac.  

It was going to be a long weekend.

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