Wish I could remember more of my dreams. I make notes on those I can recall. As well as helping to process recent events, they provide insights. Sometimes the clarity comes years later. These days they are never wet.
Last night’s involved a succession of situations where tasks and briefings were administered, but none could be trusted. As if I was working for MI5 or the CIA, but could never discover who was pulling the strings. Every time I found enough faith to comply, the commanding structures were found to be little more than an outside shell of a Pandora’s Box.
The desire to escape, to find a clear space, was always my driving motive. Just a few individuals could be trusted.
It made me think, as I luxuriated in the bath this morning. If push comes to shove in this life, there are a good number of people I can turn to. Who would, to a very significant degree, listen to me, not judge or edit me, and make an effort to help. Maureen. Neil and Eric Godier. To a certain extent the kids – Lauren, Josie and Rory – although I would not press too hard there. Maureen’s sister Margaret. Lauren’s husband Chris, for sure. Eight, even before friends enter the picture. In alphabetical order, Al, Derek, Gina, Jean, John Atwell, John Devane, John Madden, Jon Marks, Jono, Judith, Mark, Martin Clark, Martin Vermond, Shaun, Steve and Tony. I would have to throw in my two neighbours, Dean and Denise. That’s 26 people. Wow. Lucky me.
Not sure that any of them mirror my views. It would be miraculous if they did. Since attending the Buddhist practice back in 2011-12, I have gradually revised whatever metaphysics were previously in place. Much of which was an accepted, consensus narrative, based on the science thrown up by the Enlightenment.
Above all, my guts and all of my instincts – which are great truth-tellers – scream at me that the incredible human race and this beautiful planet are not the end result of billions of years of random chaos acted out in an indifferent universe. Same with the bollocks that if you gave enough typewriters to enough monkeys, a Shakespeare play would emerge. No. It wouldn’t.
In the last chapter of Out of Essex, Satan and God take a Turkish bath together. Satan mentions the improbability of “the old chestnut that humans, somehow, crawled out of atomic soup that once covered Earth”. More than once, he recalls, the pair of them had rolled around helplessly on Heaven’s floor, laughing at Darwin’s ideas.
How did we evolve? Personally, I would kick both Darwin and the Bible into touch. I am attracted to the theory of the former NASA scientist John Brandenburg, that the atmosphere of the planet Mars contains isotopes pointing to a nuclear explosion over half a million years ago. Does that point to ancient, highly intelligent, very aggressive life beyond our planet? Maybe.
In the future scenario where Stormtroopers employed by Google and Amazon (let’s face it, the money for government armies is fast running out) break into my ‘smart’ house, pin me up against a wall and demand that I reveal my politically incorrect views on the origins of the human race, the following words might sum it up.
“No idea which sewer you came from, but there are major physical and behavioural similarities between humans and other primates. Best guess is we go back to some form of DNA graft as an experiment by extra-terrestrials. Take that fucking stupid helmet off, go home to your family and watch Kubrick’s ‘2001: A Space Odyssey.”
Second best guess: our ancestors arrived here from other planets.
That’s the kind of shit I think about in the bath. It’s so refreshing to be free of work for a fortnight.
The Biscuit Factory 