Post: https://www.reddit.com/r/zen/comments/1e0k1t7/zen_doesnt_have_a_fixed_doctrine/ This Case involves four contexts: 1. Full mazu case 2. plumb mountain case 3.  nanquan teaching not given 4. wumen partial case, discussion of giving only part as sufficent With that in mind:  Restatement wumen: here is the middle part of a famous koan, and you only need to understand this one piece to know the whole wumen poem: when you meet someone, discuss what you both know, don't discuss the part (of the teaching or Case) they haven't heard/understood. Zen Masters: here is some medicine to cure the sickness of the other medicine we gave you. and now for a bit about holidays... Mr. Smoketoomuch: I'm fed up with being treated like a sheep, I mean what's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted round in buses, surrounded by sweaty, mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their 'Sunday Mirrors', complaining about the tea, 'Oh they don't make it properly here do they not like at home' stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they 'overdid it on the first day'! And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Bontinentals with their modern international luxury roomettes and draft Red Barrel and swimmingpools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats, forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in the queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup the first item on the menu of International Cuisine and every Thursday night the hotel is a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring a tiny emaciated Intalian with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair Bryl creemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged Spanish waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman ruins to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and one evening you visit the so-called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos', and complaining about the food, 'It's so greasy here isn't it!' and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr Scholl sandals and Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he drones on and on and on about how Mr Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited, 'to all at number 22, weather wonderful our room is marked with an "X". Food very greasy but we found a charming. little place hidden away in the back streets, where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe its because I'm a Londoner".

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