The Dumpster

The Agnostic Menace.

I have never believed in God, but for a short period of my life, I have tried to fool myself into believing that I did. I have sincerely prayed for a wide variety of things ranging from test grades to pets and from Visa application approvals to forgiveness. I have even tried to put myself in God’s position, and imagine how he would receive my prayers, which eventually led to a form of OCD where I would first try and apologize for anything I had done wrong, then give thanks for anything he might have helped me out with, and then finish with asking for whatever I wanted - in that order. I had to make sure that I didn’t overdo any one of these three segments of my prayer, because I thought that if I was God, then I would get the wrong idea – If I thanked him too much, he would feel he has given a lot already, and would stop; if I overly apologized, he would think I was pathetic, and if I asked him for something too many times, he would consider me ungrateful. I was probably 8 or 9 years old at this stage. Then I grew up.

At some point, I learnt the word ‘atheist’. I was already too cool to believe in God, but now I would be even cooler – I would be an atheist… a motherfucking ATHEIST. I made sure everyone knew that’s what I was. I told my parents, my friends, and my teachers. I didn’t really have solid reasons for it, but being an atheist meant you would get reactions out of people. It meant that you were something that very few people around you had the courage to be. It meant that you were directly denying what all your friends’ parents were trying to teach them. It also meant that the number of assholes with the power to screw with your life was reduced to just your parents and your teachers (everyone else was being screwed around by their parents, their teachers and this God character). When I found other kids that also called themselves atheists we would meet up and be ultra-cool together. We would be the few people standing up for truth against the world.  Again, I didn’t have solid reasons for these beliefs. Then I grew up.

At some further point, I learnt the word ‘agnostic’. By now, I had developed very good reasons for being an atheist. I knew the general arguments for and against the existence of God, and I had rejoiced in finding out that I had picked the right side without even knowing it. I had had many heated debates and discussions about the topic, read articles in magazines, and made many believers look foolish. But then this new word appeared. The little kid inside me, who had apparently been hanging around all these years started jumping up and down in excitement – being agnostic would be even cooler than being an atheist. It would show that I didn’t give a fuck. If you didn’t buy the ‘not giving a fuck’, then it would show, at the least, that I wasn’t arrogant enough to completely dismiss something man has believed in since the dawn of civilization. It would show that I am even more of a rationalist than those blind atheists who think they have figured out the world.

The cool-points in my head weren’t the only advantage to being agnostic. I rediscovered the multitude of joys that come with the hope that seemed to have disappeared along with my prayer-OCD. My scapegoat was back – even if he wasn’t entirely there, he wasn’t absent. I could now choose from an all-you-can-eat buffet of philosophies and theologies. I was free to distort infinity in any way I pleased today, only to point the infinity stick in another direction tomorrow. Being agnostic was easy. I didn’t have to take a stand, didn’t have to listen to reason, and didn’t have to listen to religion. I told people that reason drove me to being an atheist, but a lack of reasons to believe in reason drove me to being agnostic. Then I grew up.

I am now, once more, an atheist. I swear to god that I will always remain an atheist. If I die and go to hell, I will congratulate the devil on what a good job he did. If I die and go to heaven, then I will be thankful that I was wrong. There is not much more I can say about the existence of God without regurgitating a whole load of stuff that you already know. Instead, I would like to do something that I don’t think is done enough – address the agnostics:

You’re all a bunch of pussies. Grow a pair and pick a side. In fact, I don’t even see how an honest agnostic can exist. An agnostic is someone who believes in God and is too scared to admit it, or doesn’t believe in God and is too scared to face that reality. Either way, you’re scared.  The sooner you bunch realize that, the better. Also, please don’t give me that crap about not believing in “God” but “believing in some sort of higher power”. You have no idea what you’re talking about – that “higher power” you believe in is called Physics. Another trick you fuckers hide up your sleeves, is trying to tell me what God is. You and me already have an agreed upon definition of God – an all powerful, all knowing, perfect, infinite being. This definition has remained a constant, and is the only working definition for God. When you try and tell me that God is a “universal consciousness”, and then try and convince me that a universal consciousness exists, that’s a whole different argument altogether. It would be like me trying to tell you that dragons exist because dragons are sort of like big lizards when you look at them.

If you’re not an atheist, then you’re part of the problem. If you’re one of those fuckers who believe that “everyone should be entitled to their own beliefs” then you’re part of the problem. If you’re not asking every God-loving twat you meet why he believes in fairy tales (when the topic comes up), then you’re part of the problem. Last but not least, if you’re a God-loving twat, then you’re part of the problem. If you are a struggling agnostic, then the only solution to your problem is to fill the void left behind by the absence of God with some sort of strong, rational belief that makes sense. The only solution to that is to start by reading a fucking book.

Good luck.

Some of the first bricks that were laid.

I don’t know why they were there, or why they were never thrown away. It seemed like something my parents would toss in an instant so my growing, inquisitive mind would never be able to study them, soaking in their essence. But I found them repeatedly, always in the same place. They seemed to come out of nowhere. When I asked my father about them, he said they belonged to my grandfather. My grandfather recently died of cancer. The straw that broke the (not so) old man’s back was lung related. I was told he stopped carrying them around (and their contents) as an anniversary present to my grandmother, before I was born. Funnily enough, my grandfather lived a couple of hundred kilometers from us in a whole different city in a whole different state. There was no reason for these empty boxes to be here.

Before they stopped appearing, I was able to study the smell emanating from the little boxes. I don’t know if I liked the smell or not, but I had to repeatedly take whiffs of the slowly diminishing odour before someone found me in the act, and yanked the box away from me. When they were finally taken away, however, I didn’t care. The boxes were empty anyway. And smoking was bad for you. Isn’t that what everyone says?

Fast forward.

Me and the fat kid walked around near the steps leading up to the entrance of the apartment building where we lived. I didn’t really want to be there, but there was nothing else to do, and no one else to do it with. We constantly talked about nothing. The security guard was standing around, doing nothing. Meanwhile, my father was probably doing nothing, being driven home from work. He would be home in 10 minutes. The fat kid was a douche. He had nothing to offer. And he smelled like garlic.

The security guard pulls out a cigarette and lights it. Me and the fat kid go on talking about nothing, while the glowing tip slowly starts to work its way through the cigarette. Someone yells at the security guard to help them with something. He flicks the cigarette, and it lands at the foot of the stairs, still lit. The fat kid runs up to it, picks it up, and puts it up to his mouth. He tries to inhale - he doesn’t do it right. No smoke. He tries again, and coughs. I am certain I can do it much better. I walk up to him, and he hands me the cigarette. My father’s car pulls up. I throw it away, wait till my father gets out of the car, and tell him about how I got in trouble at school.

Fast forward.

I see this guy on TV.

Fast forward.

I learn about rockstars and their genius. I see this picture on a poster.

More bricks in future posts…

Spiral out!

Keep. Going…

Spiral out!

Keep. Going…

Spiral out!

Keep. Going…

Spiral out!

Keep. Going…

Embrace this moment. Remember. We are eternal. All this pain is an illusion.

A female deer

Let’s start at the very beginning. I have often been told that it’s a very good place to start. I don’t know if I buy it, but let’s start there anyway.

I was young, innocent, naive and drunk. Or at least I thought I was drunk. Maybe I simply told myself I was drunk. I had had alcohol - that was for sure. Yes, I was drunk… or maybe just tipsy. Either way, I was definitely not sober. I remember grabbing on to a girl’s arm as she walked away. She didn’t seem to like that very much; in fact, she was pretty upset about it. She was also just plain pretty. I also remember her sitting on my lap at some point. I remember trying extra hard to keep from popping a boner whilst she was sitting there. I remember feeling uncomfortable with my surroundings. A house party is no place for someone so innocent.

Is innocence even a virtue anymore? Was it ever a virtue? Something tells me that it used to be, and at some point before I was born, it stopped being one. What is a virtue anyway? Socrates couldn’t figure it out. Maybe I shouldn’t try. When I think of the word ‘innocence’, I think of a lack of understanding; lack of awareness. I think about a sheltered teenager who will one day be forced to deal with the world. Being innocent is something I would never want to be again, and something I never want my kids to be. The day they learn to speak, they’re learning four letter words, and the day they learn what being cool is, they’re learning to inhale. Well maybe not. Come to think of it, I’m thinking of the word ‘naive’. For some reason, the words ‘innocent’ and ‘naive’ have the same meaning in my head. But back to being drunk-

I like stumbling when I’m drunk, even if I’m not drunk enough to be stumbling. It’s fun. I stumbled out onto the backyard, where a bunch of people were smoking cigarettes. Either I asked for one, or I was offered one. I can’t remember. Either way, someone handed me a cigarette. It was already lit. I took a drag…coughed my lungs out. Someone said “that’s good”. I took another drag, and felt the sharp stab again, instantly followed by another coughing fit. It was worse this time. Another drag – the coughing continues. I ask for a glass of water. It takes forever. The coughing subsides before I get it. I look up to see a group of people grinning at me. I look around. I look again. This was no cigarette. This wasn’t the beginning either. Maybe I should start over…this time at the very beginning.

Beyond the mushroom.

During my first eighteen years of waiting, I have attempted to write many books. I have woven grand stories in my head, none of which I can remember. Numerous people have probably been murdered in numerous gruesome ways, and too many good people have probably had many unfortunate things happen to them. A great number of men have probably struggled with dilemmas no one should have to deal with, and a great many empires have probably fallen only to rise again. No doubt, creatures from other worlds have taken over ours, and creatures from ours must have done the same. I could go on, but as I have already mentioned, I can remember none of these stories. I find writing a book difficult to deal with in the same way that a psychedelic experience can be difficult to deal with. Let me explain.

When I say ‘a psychedelic experience’, I should clarify that I mean a mushroom trip. Just about every psychedelic drug puts you on a road to the same destination. You invariably get lost on the way, and no one ever makes it. But we try. It is, as they say, about the journey.

I generally try and go into the mushroom trip with a plan. I find that the three or four hour window into wonderland the fungus gives you is only enough to lend the taste of something you need a harder drug to swallow. It is, if you will, the equivalent of making music with one of those tiny battery powered keyboards (this would make marijuana one of those websites on the internet that teaches you about notes and chords, but perhaps I am taking this analogy a bit too far). I usually feel that a plan is essential for a mushroom trip because it sets you off in a particular direction, and if you’re looking for something more than a really fun time, direction helps. However, what I find is that this plan invariably falls apart.

When the future becomes the present, nothing is right anymore. You find there are variables you have not taken into consideration. You find you cannot tie your shoelaces to go to the park, or maintain a train of thought to watch Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. You get distracted easily, and are confused about many of the things you are feeling. You try to keep your cool, but in reality, you are praying that the cool keeps you. The interesting thing is, however, that there needs to be a plan to fall apart. Without a plan, I find it is much harder to derive anything meaningful from the trip. The plan is crucial, but only to break down for a higher purpose. This is what happens to me when I sit down to try and put the sagas in my head on paper (or the blank white space filling my screen above the taskbar). Everything falls apart, and I end up with a collection of words that form sentences, and a record of abstract ideas. Come to think of it, I mostly only brought up my attempts at writing books so I could talk about mushrooms for a while…mostly.

You see, I consider myself a fairly intelligent person, and every time something happens that makes me doubt this, I quickly ignore it and carry on with the insanely epic profound thought I was mulling over before the interruption. I guess I simply need a place to dump the thoughts that have been brewing in my head during my eighteen years of waiting. I guess I’ve decided to stop approaching this like a mushroom trip, and approach it instead, as an acid trip – welcome the insanity and chaos, which will hopefully all fall in place and make sense in the end.