Starbucks

I’ve been seeing a bunch of this Canadian girl lately – not romantically, of course: she’s got a boyfriend (though away), and, as everyone knows, I’m not interested in that sort of thing (so much easier without all the weirdness that comes once two people have rubbed their naked bodies together) – but we hang out and go for walks round San Miguel and on a Saturday morning she insists I accompany her to Starbucks so she can read the papers and drink her one latté of the week and I get to sit there thinking about how the other half live while hitting up baristas for free hot water so I can drink my very own green jasmine loose leaf tea that I brought all the way from England and – hey! it’s Mexico: nobody cares – and probably one day I’ll drop someone a tip for their trouble; they can always say no.

She’s cool, this Canadian girl – in fact, you’d never know she was Canadian at all, what with all her opinions and forthrightness and not caring about saying the controversial thing.

I know, right? You thought everyone in Canada was bland – but this is like the fifth or sixth Canadian I’ve met who had something of a personality, so it’s probably about time you knocked that old urban myth on the head, you generalising, narrow-thinking xenophobe, you.

Anyway, we were out Friday night walking the streets and digging the crowds and the trumpets and everyone milling and, not that anything was really happening, but the milling was good, and it gives the night a focal point if you call it ‘The Festival of Something or Other’ ‘cos there’s always the sense then that something might happen, other than milling, and even though it never does, by the time everyone’s realised that, the milling’s done, and been thoroughly enjoyed, and it’s time to go home and: who cares anyway? Milling’s kind of the way of the world, one way or another, and jolly pleasant it is too.

But you don’t have a clue what I’m on about, do you? All you really want is some sort of sex scene – which would imply you weren’t paying attention during that first paragraph – or, worse, doubting my veracity – in which case: tut tut; shame on you; drop and give me fifty; and go beg Mary for forgiveness.

You really think I make this stuff up? You really think I’d hook up with a girl who had a boyfriend? Imagine his heart! Imagine his pain! I tells you what: some of you reading this think of nothing but your own peckers and fannies; that’s the God’s honest truth. And I shake my head and weep for it.

Yes, she stayed over at mine. Yes, we watched a bit of porn together. Yes, we might have turned out the lights and, in our separate beds, made one another aware of various things, but – there ain’t no crime in that. It’s the nineties, baby: get with it!

And then, like I say, we went this morning over to Starbucks and grabbed the comfiest chairs and sat there with our hot beverages and a stack of papers telling all the latest bad things that have happened in the world, which was of no interest to me, but sure gave my friend lots to huff and puff about.

By the way, I paid for her drink, if that’s what you’re wondering, ‘cos I can’t help it – daddy taught me well – and ‘cos it makes me feel better about asking for that pot of hot water so I can drink my own delicious tea.

Plus, the girl who served me was so brown and sweet and smiley I swear I came this close – THIS CLOSE [indicates a very short distance between thumb and forefinger] – to dropping a tip in her cup – and I would’ve done, if I’d had something suitable in my pocket.

But back to the chair and to her there tutting and scowling, and me wishing I’d brought something to write with so I could do a sudoku or plan out my life on a napkin or just doodle some swirls, having exhausted the sports pages in about thirteen seconds, forgetting of course that there wouldn’t be any real sports, just American sports.

I needn’t have worried: of course my chum would soon find something to vent her spleen about – she always does, and usually before my thirteen seconds are up – and it only took ever-so-slightly longer this beautiful lovely sunny Saturday morning in Mexico where all is well and everybody is chill and all the world’s troubles are at least 500 miles to the north.

“Will you look at that?” she said, keeping her hands and stare on the paper and giving me absolutely nothing to look at at all.

“Tut,” she said. “Fuckin’ hell,” she said.

“What?” I said, kind of wishing I didn’t have to, but knowing that was part of the game.

“This Rose McGowan story,” she said. “I mean, God knows, it’s fuckin’ horrible, and I’m glad that pig’s getting what he deserves – I hope they all do; I hope every single story that ever was comes out and they all do their time in jail, and get their own asses jerked off into – but…don’t you see? There’s an elephant in the room here.”

She raised her eyes from the paper and looked up at me. I looked around the room, feeling it only right to make the obligatory joke.

“What?” I said. “You mean her?”

I nodded my eyes at a fabulously wobbly American woman in a truly preposterous pair of tourist sunglasses: you could tell she was American by the loudness and content of the words which staggered and lurched out of her mouth.

“Bit mean,” I said, “to call her an elephant.”

“Elephants are like two hundred pounds at birth,” she said. “She’s at least three hundred. That’d be mean to elephants, if anything.”

“Shame on you,” I said. “She’s probably got a thyroid problem.”

“You mean she can’t stop eating them?”

“Nice one,” I said, giggling, glancing, shaking my head, hoping no one was hearing, wishing she’d talk just a little quieter.

Then the American woman turned and dragged herself past us, attempted to say “grassy-arse” but gave up half way through, and squeezed herself out the door.

“Imagine that ass riding on your face,” my friend said. “Thighs round your neck. Big hairy muff rubbing roast beef flaps all on your chops –”

She stopped. She stopped ‘cos I puked. I’d eaten a whole 900 gram pot of yoghurt for breakfast, and three bananas, and a bag of raisins, and a packet of Ritz crackers – no fridge, you see – which only accounts for the yoghurt, I know, but everything else kind of logically follows on from that – and it was just too much.

If there’s one thing I can’t stomach in this world it’s –

“Blurk,” I said again, and a shot-glass full of creamy white gunk and – I swear – a couple of whole entire raisins came dribbling down my chin.

My friend laughed till she cried. I scooped it up with the napkin I might otherwise have planned my life on and then, eyes watering, joined in the laughter too.

I took a sip of my tea. I looked down and in the cup there was a small swirl of something white that had once been on the inside of a cow, and – would you believe it? – a small bobbing half-digested raisin.

I lifted the cup and showed it to my friend. She laughed so hard a raisin shot out of her own nose and hit me on the side of my face.

It was uproarious. It was ridiculous. Raisins shooting everywhere. Yoghurty breakfasts coming back to haunt us. Bits of sick in our drinks.

She rubbed her nose and giggled and tittered. Shook her head and then threatened to break out once more.

I looked round the room. People were looking, sure enough, but with big wide smiles, enjoying the show. Some had got the giggles themselves. Others were whispering and making jokes, and setting their partners off.

Probably enough, I thought, before the whole place goes up in hysterical flames – and, more importantly, before –

Oh. Too late. Here comes some American tourist fellow thinking he can start a conversation with us just because we’ve been laughing and we’re white and he thinks we’re probably from where he’s from and that gives him the right. First he’ll ask us where we’re from – and then he’ll either: a) immediately tell us where he’s from and go on some long, boring monologue that begins with what he’s doing here and ends God knows where, but certainly nowhere related to where it started; or b) tell us some equally tedious anecdote related to either Canada or England – some relation he has over there, some workmate he once had maybe twenty or thirty years ago – and then from there via non-sequiturs and tangents find himself at the same place Route A would’ve taken us, and will it ever end? Probably not – or at least not before about forty-five minutes of our lives have shrivelled up and died and –

“You from the States?” she says, before he even has a chance to speak, all gleefully bounding up but now taken aback by the weird, twisted, sadistic expression on her face.

“Yup,” he says, “Ga–”

He doesn’t even get the word out. She’s on him. She’s up from her seat and ushering him out the door. Whispering hurriedly in his ear. Almost shoving him. And the poor guy’s so bamboozled and perplexed he just becomes completely compliant and is in the street before he even knows what’s happened to him.

“What did you say to him?” I asked, shocked.

“I just told him you were a massive racist. That you hate white Americans. That he’d better get out of here before things turned nasty. That it was for his own good ‘cos you’re a complete psycho and you’ve got a knife in your bag.”

“What bag?”

“He didn’t know that.”

I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. I hated the thought of that guy thinking I was bonkers. What if he saw me in the street later? It’s a small town: there’s only so many streets to walk down.

What if he got a bunch of his friends to jump me? Figured he needed to be some sort of hero? Was a psycho himself – despite coming across as a picture of your typical fearful, insecure, airheaded, chubby, foolishly-attired American abroad?

But he passed us at the window, looking dazed and afraid, and I thought the best thing would be to make some fierce face at him and raise myself from my seat, as though I wanted to go flying through the window to get at him.

B read my cue – let’s stop calling her ‘my friend’; let’s give her at least an initial – and got up too, as if to restrain me, and the fella went shuffling down the calle and that was that.

What a bunch of excitement! And the day hadn’t even begun.

I needed a cup of tea after all that. I took a sip. I accidentally hoovered up yet another raisin and then spat it out. Then I picked it up and looked it over. It was once eaten, part-digested, vomited up in a goop of yoghurt, bobbing in tea – but a raisin is a raisin.

I popped it in my mouth and gave it a chew. It was succulent and delicious. It reminded me of this other amazing raisin I’d eaten several years previous.

“Did I ever tell you,” I said, “the time I –”

“I don’t think so,” she said, smacking me with the paper. “And I haven’t even got to telling you what I wanted to say.”

“You weren’t saying anything,” I said.

She whacked me again.

“Enough whacking,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The elephant,” she said. “The elephant in the room.”

I glanced around. One more whack.

“Not that again,” she said.

“But she’s gone,” I said.

“For fuck’s sake,” she said. “I wasn’t even talking about her to begin with.”

“Who?” I said.

“The elephant!” she said. And then she whacked me like three times in quick succession, but only playfully, and we rolled back in our chairs and giggled.

“I need some more tea,” I said. I got up and walked to the counter with my pot and asked the delightful barista if it’s possible I can have a little more agua caliente, por favor. She smiled and didn’t bat an eye. She turned and filled my pot. She handed it to me with her lovely brown hands and I really wished I had something to give her in return.

“Okay,” said B, “here’s the eleph – don’t you dare – here’s the elephant in the room. Rose McGowan, right? In the papers again ‘cos she’ talking about how for twenty years she’s ‘been silenced’ and I’m just, like – hello? Whaddya mean ‘you’ve been silenced’? You sold your silence. You got a big ass chunk of money for it. You chose that, made the decision, nobody had a gun to your head while you signed some non-disclosure contract – and now you’re here adding this whole other layer of victimhood to the whole thing. Take some responsibility! Be like: maybe it was wrong. Maybe I regret it. But I thought it was for the best at the time, and that’s what I decided. And: not just that but – no one’s talking about it. All these stories – and nothing. That’s the elephant in the room. And it’s driving me nuts!”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it’s horrible, you know, it’s…terrible, right? I think that’s the real issue here. It just…”

“What? It breaks your heart?”

“It does. Of course it does. It’s fuckin’ –”

“I know,” she said. “I get that. I feel it. I totally agree. But I’m talking about a whole other thing here – and I don’t think it’s doing anyone any favours to maintain this – this pretence. It’s not honest. It’s not…strong or empowered. And…right, tell me this: do you see yourself as a feminist?”

“Er,” I said, “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t even know what that means.”

“‘Course you do: don’t play dumb. Someone who supports women’s rights. Someone who believes in gender equality.”

“That’s just describing a normal person,” I said. “That would be like having a word for a non-Nazi in Hitlerized Germany. Like having a word for someone who didn’t think we should exterminate gypsies or Jews.”

She thought about this for a moment. I thought about it too. I’d never thought about any of this before, it’d just come out – but it seemed kind of right.

“You’re an idiot,” she said. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about – as usual.”

But she said it with a half-smile, and I let my initial flash of indignation dissolve and relaxed into it. I figured this was just her enjoying giving me a hard time and what the hell. It was time for the show, I guessed, and settled in, switched my gaze on, and attention set to ‘max’.

“The thing is,” she said, “this Rose McGowan – yes, she’s suffered, and I can totally understand why she didn’t speak out – ‘cos what could have come from it, right? She thought she was all on her own. No evidence. A thousand other things to consider, and all the bullshit of Hollywood, and that career carrot dangling, which must feel like the most precious and sacred thing in the world, when you’re in the midst of it, and right at the beginning of it, and it must be terrifying to think that might be taken away – so it’s totally understandable she took the money and ran – that’s what most of us do anyway, without having to think about careers and whole lives and having a big fat bag of cash to compensate us – but then it happened again. He offered her a mil. And she said, ‘gimme six and you’ve got a deal’. Six mil! Where’s the integrity and outrage there? Where’s the desire for truth and openness and not putting up with this bullshit any more? I mean, it was only when he said no to the six mil that she talked – but nobody’s talking about that, and how moneygrubbing she was being, right?”

I looked round again, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention. I had no clue what to say so I just sat there. I’m a man talking to a woman and it doesn’t seem my place to have any sort of opinion on this, other than that these guys are shits and they deserve everything they’ve got coming to them, and more, and the whole thing’s a crying shame, this fuckin’ world and all the assholes in it. But I’m not even sure I’m allowed to say that, ‘cos who knows what’s right or wrong when you’re the one in the position of privilege? So I say nothing.

“The point is,” she says, “not that she took the cash, or not that she asked for more, but that she’s not taking responsibility for it, and still seeing herself as this ‘victim’ who ‘was silenced’, and it just perpetuates the idea of this passive figure having things done to it. But if she took some responsibility for it…well, that’s empowering. It was her choice, and maybe it was a choice that was made under duress, but it was still a freely made decision. Okay, probably there’s some shame around it, that makes it difficult to acknowledge. Maybe she’s not there yet, and maybe in some sort of denial, and that’s okay too – but I find it weird that nobody else is mentioning it, even though the words are right there, clear as day, and nobody else is wondering what would have happened if he’d agreed to pay her the six million bucks.”

“It’s just respect,” I said. “Right? And it’s not the point of the story and the issue. It’s not the time to be talking about these things.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, “I get it. But – so what do I do, then? Is it just me thinking these things? I doubt I’m unique: there must be others out there having these thoughts. Maybe journalists. Maybe newspaper editors. Maybe –”

“Fuckin’ hell,” I said. “You have to give these things time.”

She squinted her eyes at me. She looked at me hard for like eight or nine seconds.

“Thing about you is,” she said, “I know you’re a nice guy. And I know you don’t know what to say, and you’re caught in this inbetween position of thinking you’re supposed to say something, and knowing you can’t say what you’re really thinking, but mostly just wishing you didn’t have to say or think anything at all. You’re like a guy at a funeral racking his brains for words plucked from movies ‘cos that’s all he really knows when put in these uncomfortable, unfamiliar situations – when all he really wants is to be left alone, for the whole thing to be over, and mainly to make sure he gets his fair share of potato chips and tunafish sandwiches and sausage rolls.”

I laughed. I thought about protesting but what was the point? It was hilarious – and I knew her well enough by now to know there was no stopping this river once it was in flow.

“You know me so well,” I smiled, pouring out some more tea.

“Better than you know yourself,” she said. “I wonder…I wonder if you’re one of those guys who is feeling just that extra little bit heartbroken ‘cos this Weinstein asshole was such a hideous, odious cunt. ‘Cos he was fugly and flabby and clearly a complete prick, and the women were all gorgeous. You there all semi-good looking and lovely and respectful, and knowing you’ll never even for a second get to speak to a woman like –”

“Sh,” I said. “Can we just talk a little quieter? I feel like…we’re in Mexico, you know? It’s a nice sunny day. People are –”

“Oh? You want to quiet me? To bully me into submission? To mansplain to me how I’m supposed to behave?”

“For fuck’s sake,” I said – and then I noticed she was laughing at me.

“I got you, didn’t I?”

“You got me,” I said. “I shoulda known better but – yes, you got me. Fuck. I honestly don’t know what to do anymore. Just keep quiet and sit in my room farting and watch the footy. Is it any reason we just want a quiet, simple life? World’s got too complex and crazy and – yes, you’re right – even going to a funeral or a wedding or – hell, even this – going out for a cup of tea on a Saturday morning is fraught with –”

“Ooh,” she said, “check this out: there’s a new season of that Flowers TV show coming out soon.”

She looked at me over the top of her phone and gave me the most mischievous grin imaginable. She does this to me every week, of course. Goes off on one. Gets all riled up. Carries on and on while I sit trying to remain detached and objective – but never objectifying: oh no no no – and then, just when I finally crack and start to say something myself, she breaks it off, switches tack, loses all inclination to seriousness, and makes it very clear that we’re totally done and it’s back to levity and brevity once more, and makes like nothing ever happened.

I fall for it every week. I sit there now thinking over all these things, and feeling like I’ve got this giant build up of thoughts and emotions, and there’s just no way to get it out because, I know for a fact, she won’t go there.

This is her game and she always wins. But I’ll keep coming back until I can make it through without being drawn: just breathing and smiling and letting the whole thing slide by me.

I’d thought today would be the day but I guess not. Though not too late to at least try to improve on last week’s showing.

“You know,” I said – and then I stopped myself, ‘cos this is all part of the game too. Cutting me off. Getting me riled. Baiting me with the possibility of expression and then shutting me down – then teasing me into saying something she’ll get to be offended by, that I’ll immediately regret, that she’ll needle me with later, that I’ll feel bad for for days.

“What?” she said. “I’m listening. What is it?”

Big brown eyes. Looking right into me. Slight curl on the edges of those lips. Anticipatory and eager.

What was that thing I was saying earlier? About how the headaches only come once bodies have been frotted?

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking…”

I gulped. I decided not to say it. But the words were repeating and I didn’t know any other way to stop them. And she was just staring at me.

“Just that, you know – and I’m sure you agree with this – that women can be assholes too. But in different w–”

“Oh my God,” she said, “are you really going there, after what we’ve just been talking about?”

And there we go again. Got me once more. Or, rather, I got myself, ‘cos I knew what was coming and I still had to say it.

There’s no winning that argument. The mountain of evidence is too high. There’s nothing I can say to make any of this right.

I just couldn’t keep my big mouth shut, huh? Even when it should be the easiest thing in the world. And word unsaid, that feel so big in the moment, are soon forgotten, even impossible to recall - but words spoken, let out loud, placed into the ears of others and responsible for birthing whole other conversations and feelings...those things stay with us - stay with me - and stir again in the dead of night and fill us with pangs of guilt and regret and wishings for the clock to be turned back.

Is that why Lao Tzu said ‘don’t do anything’? Is that why Oscar Wilde said ‘keep schtum, and just be a dick on the inside, rather than letting everyone else know’?

But how to learn that you’re a dick and therefore move beyond it, if you just keep all your dickiness rattling around and around in your own head, and never let it see the light of day?

Sometimes you learn what not to say by saying it. Sometimes those thoughts can rattle for years, having convinced you that they’re true - but it’s only once they’re given voice that you realise what a swindle they’ve performed, and let them go.

Who knows with this girl? Maybe she’s there to get these thoughts out, and in her own way is helping me to improve, whether she knows it or not. There’s something that pulls me to her, that keeps me coming back these Saturday mornings, frustrating though it is.

Or maybe it’s just the game I need to try and win: complete this level and learn how not to be sucked in, by feminine wiles and charm and nuttiness, and progress to the next.

Been on this level a while, now. It might be even harder than completing Manic Miner.

Well, there’s always next week. What is it the footballers always say these days? “We go again”?

Yes, we go again. One step forward, nought point nine nine steps back.

‘C’est la vie,’ I thought, as I shrunk down in my chair and resigned myself to not feeling great for the next few days, and all because of a mouth that just couldn’t stay shut.

Weinstein and Whatsisname

It makes you think, doesn’t it? Whenever a Harvey Weinstein or a Bill Cosby or a Jimmy Savile hits the media outlets. I don’t doubt for a second that most of us, whether first- or second-hand, have some sort of emotional connection with the issues these stories raise. A lot of the time, for me, its questions about what one is supposed to do – because, as we inevitably learn, these things go on for years until at least the second or third person comes forward and a snowball effect begins. Then it’s all: ‘yes, we knew about it but we didn’t know the extent’ or: ‘I tried but no one would listen’ or: ‘I didn’t want the headaches and the hassle’. And, in the meantime, others suffer at these monsters’ hands.

There’s no blame here, mind, for knowing of these things and either choosing to do nothing, or for trying and getting nowhere: it’s all perfectly understandable. I’ve done the same myself, several times. Chosen what felt like the path of least bother and looking to move on. Respecting others’ wishes, despite wanting to take action. Focusing on the brighter sides of life, and allowing time to work its amnesia-inducing magic. And in a lot of ways it seems like the right choice, because we do move on, and do forget, and life does get brighter and enjoyable once again. But then these stories pop up and the questions arise once more.

Why didn’t somebody say something? (Why didn’t I say something?)

Why didn’t they save future others from this pain? (Why didn’t I?)

And:

What would I have done in their shoes? (I am in their shoes. I still have this knowledge. What should I do now?)

To be fair, I don’t know a Harvey Weinstein or a Jimmy Savile – but I do know a guy I (and others) see as a major sleazebag who, I feel, has many times taken advantage of and used people for his own emotional and sexual gratification, justifying it in some weird ways. And not that it has ever been non-consensual, as far as I’m aware, but there is a sense of subtle manipulation and dishonesty that I find pretty disgusting.

I dunno: there’s nothing particularly clear cut in this: we’re not talking so much predator and prey, and people doing things against their will, but someone older, smart, using his wiles to be freely given what he wants.

Is there something wrong with that? Is it not just a case of a charming seducer doing what both men and women have been doing always?

But perhaps the difference is that this person works in something of a place of trust. Perhaps it’s more like a doctor or a therapist using their authority and position to take advantage of those more vulnerable and somewhat in thrall. Perhaps it’s more akin to some cult leader creating situations which, when finely tuned, can be manipulated to shift events and bodies in the way they want them moved.

Like I say, not coerced, but steered. Not forced, but skilfully persuaded. Freely given, and perhaps only years later realising that something wasn’t quite right.

These tales are legion, of course, in so-called ‘spiritual circles’: Sai Baba, Chogyam Trungpa, Franklin Jones, Bikram Choudhury, among many others – and that’s not even looking at the bona fide cult groups and religious abuses where such things are more explicit, and less likely to be dressed up in ideas of being ‘teachings’.

So, like I say, it’s not clear cut. People in situations like these are not necessarily likely to see themselves as victims. Nor do they (or those that know them) have any sense that they’re particularly vulnerable and in a place to be taken advantage of – they’re not disabled or diagnosed as mentally-challenged, and, indeed, they may feel empowered, strong, in full possession of their faculties, perfectly aware of what they’re getting into.

And yet, from another perspective, vulnerable is exactly what they are: for they are often young, naïve, in a place where all kinds of new ideas are being presented to them, but probably lacking the facilities of suitable discernment, and going along with what those who are older and seemingly wiser are telling them. Delusion and gullibility may be issues. There may have been a buy-in to a hippy ideal of freedom from inhibition and from the moral and behavioural constructs of one’s societal conditioning and upbringing, mis-sold with false promises of unrealistic results, and packaged up in the ancient and, when correctly applied, beneficial wisdoms of spiritual giants.

Finally, there may actually be a deep and genuine respect for the teacher that is not necessarily a misplaced one: for it’s not a case that all this stems from an individual in whom issues are strictly black or white, good or evil, but from the mixed bag that is a human being, made up of things both wonderful and distasteful, and a human being who may not even be fully conscious of the motivations for doing what they’re doing.

It’s a subtle thing. It’s insidious and nasty, in my eyes, but there’s little in the way of explicit actions and evidence, as there is in the high profile cases mentioned above. Things like this exist more in the realm of feelings, and may not come to light in the mind of the sufferer for many years, if at all. And given that the perpetrator seems to be a master manipulator and spinner of deceit – perhaps even buying into it himself – it’s all so easily explained away and denied.

It comes right back to the question of what could one do, and the answer, I suppose, is the answer most people arrive at: nothing. Nothing that seems like it would be effective, and nothing that one could present as a concrete case. Nothing that wouldn’t create a headache for oneself and others, and nothing that would make one’s life better. We move ourselves away from the person and, meanwhile, hope their behaviour stops. We check in every now and then and breathe a sigh of relief when it seems that it is. We think: perhaps they’ll be dead soon, and the world will be a better place. We get on with our lives and, for the most part, forget about it.

But every now and then a story explodes into the news, and all the thoughts arise, for they never really go away, and are always there, waiting to be triggered.

…

Additional details:

Q1: Who’s Jimmy Savile?

A: Well-famous British TV and radio personality who, it transpired after his death, had been up to some seriously awful deeds for decades. Of course, everybody knew, but what could they do?

Q2: Who’s the guy you’re talking about?

A: Don’t want to say.

Q3: Who’s Franklin Jones?

Totally bonkers ‘spiritual teacher’ who reckoned he was as high as anyone’s ever been. Naturally, attracted gullible followers who didn’t think it odd that his teachings involved booze, drugs, and having sex with all the pretty wives. He got away with it for decades, and lived a life of luxury on tropical islands, and then he died, still revered by many. Even very clever but also stupid Ken Wilber liked him.

Q4: Who’s Chogyam Trungpa?

One of the first Tibetan Buddhist teachers to come over to the States, a proponent of what’s called ‘crazy wisdom’ - which in some people’s eyes means you can do whatever the fuck you want and people have just got to assume it all has a higher purpose. Ya know, like booze and drugs and drink driving and ravaging people’s wives - just like the real Buddha would have done, right?

He’s written a book that a lot of people like – but I suppose a lot of good books have been written by alcoholic assholes: it’s long been a conundrum for me, whether to judge on the words, or on the mind behind the words.

I can’t remember the book but I’m sure there’s plenty that’s useful in there. Perhaps the key is to see him as a good compiler of the thoughts of others, and a guy who had some ideas, since we place no moral demands on compilers, and less on ideas men.

But, as a spritual teacher and a human, I’m gonna go with a fraud and a warning. It goes right back to good old Ramana’s words about fake students creating fake teachers. It’s Hitler and Trump. They wouldn’t get anywhere if there weren’t gullible people to promote them.

Also, from the Dhammapada (reputedly the words of the actual Buddha):

“The thoughtless man, even if he can recite a large portion of the law, but is not a doer of it, has no share in the priesthood, but is like a cowherd counting the cows of others. The follower of the law, even if he can recite only a small portion of the law, but, having forsaken passion and hatred and foolishness, possesses true knowledge and serenity of mind, he, caring for nothing in this world or that to come, has indeed a share in the priesthood.”

Q5: What do you mean by ‘hippy ideals mis-sold as bona fide spiritual teachings’?

A good example is the issue of ‘attachment’: very early on in many people’s New Age life, the idea of attachment as the enemy might take hold. So they try to destroy all their attachments, and mistakenly believe that anything someone does that they find themselves disliking is due to their attachment or their ego, which they’re supposed to be getting rid of. So when their teacher says they’re going to sleep with their wife, they feel awful but put it down to their attachment, and persuade themselves it’s just a teaching and the teacher is doing it for their own good. Then they wake up one day years later and wonder why they’re so traumatised and realise they’ve been had.

Q6: Anything else?

As mentioned above, there is the idea put forward by Ramana Maharshi that ‘the false teacher attracts false students, and vice versa’ - but I’m not sure how I feel about that. I know we have to learn discernment and caution - but, at the same time, it’s very hard to negotiate the minefield of a dishonest person skilled in manipulation and presenting just the right image. Until we learn to fully trust ourselves, I guess - but it seems like a harsh way to learn.

Q7: And some links?

Sure. Try these:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_bombing

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaslighting

http://www.strippingthegurus.com/

http://www.4missingwomen.com/

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/.../sexual-assaults-violent.../

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holy_Hell_(2016_film)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kumar%C3%A9

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neo-Advaita

http://chi-ting.blogspot.com

https://www.metabunk.org/posts/186405/

Quote from The Telegraph article above, by a woman student of errant Tibetan teacher Sogyal Rinpoche, who he slept with (one of many):

“You’re chosen, which makes you feel special. Because he was my spiritual teacher I trusted that whatever he asked was in my best interests. You want to progress on the spiritual path, and by sleeping with the teacher you get a closeness to him which everyone is hankering after. I saw it as part of the teachings on the illusory nature of experience and emotions. But in fact it caused me a lot of pain that I wasn’t able to dissolve.”

And one from one of his closest ‘nuns’, whom he had physically abused for many years prior to this quote (given on camera as part of a pro-Sogyal film):

“Sometimes he’ll be like my father, like my mother, like my boss, like my friend - like my enemy, because he pushes my buttons. But I know always his heart and his motivation is so pure.

“He’s always showing me who I am and who I’m not. The buttons he presses are not who I truly am. The buttons he presses are what needs to be removed. Sometimes there’s a joy when they’re pressed, because it’s showing what needs to be peeled away. Whenever there’s any pain that’s not the real me hurting; that’s the ego that Rinpoche is trying to eradicate.”

Gangstalking

I’ve been chatting with an old friend a bunch the last few days: he’s been going through a weirdly interesting time. Once we were fellow Amma-heads and Vipassana addicts – I’m going back a good 15-17 years here – but our paths diverged. I was all about purity and he liked his marijuana too much. He also got into shoddy conjurer and probable kiddy-fiddler Sai Baba, and a whole bunch of weird flakey self-proclaimed psychics and mystics. They all seemed quite dodgy to me, and further investigation apparently confirmed this. But he dug them and didn’t like me trying to point out anything about them and we kind of went our separate ways.

I got to thinking about him the other day, though, and thought I’d pop in. Despite what I’ve said above, we’ve always got on well, and he’s a funny and enthusiastic chap.

I knock on the door and am startled by his appearance. He was 21 when we first met: he’s 80% bald now – genetic – and his teeth and fingers are all brown and twisted, from the marijuana.

But, you know, I guess we all age eventually – and his raucous laughing greeting hasn’t changed.

We talk the small stuff and the fun stuff and the reminiscing stuff – but what I’m really interested is this tale he was on with last time we spoke, about three years ago, where he was telling me all these people were insulting him and even shouting at him wherever he went. He’d see them in his home town; he’d see them in the city two hours away; he’d see them on foreign vacations. It was all wrapped up in some girl he’d once been in love with and sent long, heartfelt emails to, as is often a man’s wont, at least once in his life. This is when things started: all the people, he presumed, were somehow related to her: friends, people she’d shown the emails to, general bad guys. They’d just say sly things like “that’s him; that’s the cunt” and then walk away. Or maybe talk about getting him, but be talked out of it. Sometimes it was even the girl herself, standing in his neighbour’s garden late at night shouting weird insults over the fence and then disappearing.

I listened. He enthused as he told me all the latest encounters. I asked questions. I tried to refrain from outright questioning his sanity. But then I did anyway, in as gentle a way as I could.

Thing is, you see, due to my curious mind and internet compulsion, I’ve explored a lot of the darker corners of the web – and, therefore, of the human mind. What he seems to be experiencing is something known as ‘gangstalking’, which is a growing phenomenon among a certain group of people (normally Americans). Mostly what they believe is that they’re being targeted – in fact, they call themselves ‘Targeted Individuals’ (T.I.s for short) – and report the same kind of things my friend is talking about: being followed, harassed, insulted, threatened, having their shit messed with, life totally suffering as a result. Usually it’s all done at the behest of some covert government agency, but not always, and can be based around a purely personal issue, such as something stemming from the work place, or place of study, or, as in the case of my friend, misdirected romance. Everything he describes, these individuals describe too – and they’re totally serious. They form groups. They make websites. They post videos of “100% proof” – and then merely show cars entering and leaving parking lots, which to them are people ‘stalking’ them. Some of them are so outright bonkers it’s almost impossible to get my head around. While others seem like they’re not bonkers at all, just sad.

It’s such a shame what’s happened to my friend. He used to be so bright and happy. But he never could resist the weed, nor his old dark friends who liked the weed, and I think that was a big part of it. Also, I don’t think he ever really got the grounding part of spirituality – he was too wild, too far out there, even for someone like me. He cared about nothing else. Indeed, he burned for it, but went about it in pretty weird ways – and he just went mad. All that meditation and prayer and chanting and all he has to show for it is…psychoses; neuroses; and a lonely life that revolves around TV and marijuana and a weird mad head and all those brown teeth.

We believe, I think, in the early days of our spirituality that it will be some kind of cure-all panacea – that all we have to do is meditate or chant or do our yoga or share our hearts. But as I’ve grown older I’ve realised that most of the maddest people I know are spiritual people, and that whatever it was that got them going in the beginning – all that initial joy of liberation and emotional and physical freedom and expression – just isn’t sustainable. People who have been in it decades seem no nearer to being complete and whole than anyone else, and maybe even the opposite, maybe lag behind. They often come across as flakey, desperate, lost, insecure, deluded – but have also developed the coping mechanisms to show the world an entirely different face. Some of these people may be teachers, even gurus. They can sit up straight for hours; talk all manner of talk; contort their bodies wonderfully, like a circus performer; and present the gentlest loving front – yet underneath it all…

There was a story in the news last year about some ex-meditating fellow who came to believe he was being gangstalked. I read about the spiritual stage of his life and he seemed to have ascended to quite some heights in intense practice and meditation. And then at some point he lost his mind and ended up shooting a bunch of people.

Another woman I know is a teacher of what she calls ‘radical honesty’. She teaches people to be open and vulnerable. She gets them to share their innermost secrets. She probably does it quite well, and maybe it’s actually good for them – but the irony is she’s probably one of the most dishonest and manipulative people I’ve ever met, with a mind seemingly lost in a maze of falsehoods and fictions. In more honest moments she’s even confessed to being a ‘compulsive liar’. But who knows whether that wasn’t just more mindgames and manipulation?

I could go on. I know teachers of self-esteem who are riddled with insecurity. Teachers who preach peace and non-violence, and then kill critters willy-nilly. Meditation teachers filled with anxiety and nastiness. It’s…well, you teach what you have to learn, I guess – though even that’s the positive, New Age spin on it. More to the point may be that we often seek to heal in others what’s going wrong in ourselves – and so no surprise that these teachers set themselves up to cure in the external what they can’t face inside: there’s that good old projection again.

But I’m getting off track: the point being that ‘spirituality’ certainly ain’t no panacea, and, no matter what the heights we may have attained in our enthusiastic youths, there’s no escaping the madness of our Western minds and upbringing, which is perhaps the same madness which drove us to spirituality in the first place. At some point it’s going to catch up. At some point it may even overpower us, if we’re not willing to face it. And perhaps a big part of the problem with Western spirituality is that it gives us a lot of tools to avoid facing that. Allows us to be deluded about nice things instead of negative things. Creates a false ego identity that others are actually respond positively to, with their own false identities, rather than run away from. Hell, quite often they even pay for the privilege – it’s pretty easy to get away with shit in the spiritual world. The whole system is set up for it – special religious dispensation and all that.

My friend, alas, seems mostly lost. For him, I understand, it’s totally real. He’s hearing the voices and seeing the people and, you know, it doesn’t matter who you are, it’s almost impossible to see something outside of that. I mean, could you, reading this right now, consider the possibility that there was no phone or screen or piece of paper in front of you? Accept that you were actually imagining the whole thing? I wouldn’t think so – and probably no good anyone trying to convince you otherwise. Just as it’s no good me telling my friend that what he’s experiencing isn’t real. These things are real for the people experiencing them – I’ve even read of a girl who thought her gangstalkers were putting dolls in her yard, and when she took a picture of them to show her friends, even though she was still seeing dolls, her friends could see it was nothing but leaves.

So, instead, I try a different tack. I try some logic. He’s not so far gone that he’s not at least a tiny bit open to it not being real. So what we need are some facts: when did he see the girl overseas? What if we can prove that she wasn’t? What about these other people you say are following you? What if we can show they don’t know her, and don’t know you? What if when you think she’s in your neighbour’s garden shouting at you through the fence we can find out she’s actually two hours away at home with her hubby and kids and there’s no one there?

I mean, the whole thing’s totally ludicrous – this woman appears to have a very nice city life, busy and professional, family-oriented and successful – like something out of a Richard Curtis movie, really – so she’s hardly the type to go stalking some stay-at-home pothead, haunting him over the neighbour’s fence, for no apparent reason – but how to get him to see that, when he’s actually seeing and hearing her?

Also, why bother? An occupational therapist I once knew would tell me about the bonkers people she worked with, and related a perspective I found enlightening and thought-provoking: for, deluded though they may be, if it’s not impacting negatively on their lives, nor anyone else’s, where’s the harm? Let’s say there’s a woman who sees goblins under the sink. You and I both know they’re not there – but why all the effort to convince her of that, if it doesn’t bother anyone? If she likes them? If she still gets on with her life and isn’t crippled in a way she doesn’t like? If the goblins aren’t telling her to do harm?

I feel with him he doesn’t mind it too much, and he still laughs and gets on with things, and he’s not about to go shooting anyone. There’s also a sense that he’s invested in it, that it’s become a part of his identity: that he actually likes it in some way, as many of us do with our crutches and our dramas and our ideas that something outside of us is the actual cause of our problems. Who would he be without it? Better? I guess there’s no way I can be sure of that. And what does he himself want? That may be the most pertinent question, and one I’m not sure I have a clear answer on.

He’s asked what I think of it and I’ve responded with a certain part of it, in as gentle a way as I can. Ideally, I’m trying to lead him to his own realisation, and to not push him away by telling him outright it’s just delusions. I know for him it’s real and I don’t want to oppose that. So I try a bit of logic, and pointing out that she’s a happily married mother of two – his stalking skills aren’t quite up to mine, surprisingly – was a bit of a surprise and a jolt to his system. Also just working with facts – take some notes, try and get some recordings, figure out some names, keep track of times and dates – seems like a good way to go. It’s not the be all and end all – but it may just open a chink in the door to the possibility that the doctors and scientists may be right after all.

I’ve also sent him some links to things to read – reports about gangstalking; a paper that found 100% of 128 cases studied involved delusion; other people online describing the exact self-same thing, but obviously bonkers – though this doesn’t seem to have gone down so well. I’m not sure why but I imagine it’s perhaps a little threatening to the belief, and that he’s not quite ready to shine the light of logic on it just yet. Like I say, I’m trying not to push – getting together yesterday was good, and I felt we made some progress – but today he’s back to telling the stories and giving the evidence and feeling there’s just too much to dismiss the whole thing. It’s one step forward, one step back – and today’s step, for me, is probably just to give breathing and thinking space. To be honest, it may never be anything more than that, and perhaps this’ll be him, for the rest of his life. It happens, ya know? Once upon a time we were all young and excited and free – and never suspected for a second our friends and brothers and loved ones would turn out like the ones on TV, who lose their minds, lose the plots, do things that make no sense, and fall into madness. But they do, just like could happen to anyone.

It’s a weird one. There’s probably nothing I can do about it, really. But since he’s asking me what I think, I guess it’s only right that I answer, in the best way I know how.

I suppose at some point I’ll suggest a mental health professional. At least for him it’s only a personal issue, rather than global and governmental, otherwise anyone could be on it – the doctors, the study-writers – even me. Hopefully the worm hasn’t tunnelled quite that deep. Although there’s probably more to this than I realise: one of the last things he said to me, out of nowhere, was that he thinks she’s in love with him, that they’re maybe even soulmates, but circumstanecs are keeping them apart. That was a bit of a shocker: given that there hasn’t been any actual contact. It’s hard to know what to say to that: the notion of it is insane, from what I know of both their lives. He may just be more far gone than I imagine.

Poor chap. I suppose all I can do is can keep trying, if and when the door swings open. In the meantime, I guess it’s just gentle questioning and then focusing on other more palatable and friendly things. After all, there’s more to him than this, and more to our friendship too.

Cheers. :)

Interesting links:

New York Times article -

https://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/11/health/gang-stalking-targeted-individuals.html

Study paper -

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/278406061

An excellent skeptic's video explaining how gangstalking works -

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PLqMpnc54j8

Twitter feed of a guy who thinks he's being gangstalked (really bonkers) -

https://twitter.com/MarkMRich

Two blips

“Como estas? Como estuvo tu semana?”

“It was good, for the most part, with perhaps two minor blips.”

“O-oh. Blips? Does that mean you’re going to talk about them?”

“I’d like to, if you’re up for listening. You know how I like getting things off my chest.”

“Bit busy to be honest, mate. But I suppose there’s not really any way for me to stop you, is there?”

“I suppose not - though would be interesting if you tried, to see what would happen. Bit difficult to see you winning the battle - but I guess not impossible.”

“Nah. Go ahead. Let’s hear ‘Blip 1’.”

“Okay. Cool. You’re a good man.”

“Man? Please: no labels. I’m neither man nor woman: I just am. Please don’t put me in a box.”

“Sorry. And good distraction, by the way.”

“Distraction? You think that’s what that was?”

“I don’t believe this! You’re actually managing to do it. You’re actually managing to prevent me from saying what I -”

Knock knock knock: there’s a knock at the door. It’s a little old Mexican man in a hat. He wants the señor or the señora. But they’re not here. I don’t know where they are.

Maybe it’s not the time for blips. If little old Mexican men and even my own imaginary alter-ego - who’s normally on tenterhooks for everything I say - aren’t gonna allow it, who am I to argue?

Then I take out a coin - coin, of course, can override everything. And coin says: “go for it.”

Cool. Okay. I’ll just talk to the coin.

“So, coin, Blip Number 1 - you’re sure you want to hear this?”

Coin just sits there, saying nada - I take that as a ‘yes’.

“Blip Number 1 was - of course - the day after I wrote about how happy I was, and how well the writing was going. It’s ironic, ‘cos even in the moment I had this feeling - don’t say that, you know expressing something gets rid of it, and invites the opposite in - but I went right ahead anyway. And then the next day I didn’t feel like writing, and thought maybe I should have a day off, after seven days straight - and also had a couple of worms creep into my system, by reading stuff online about the writing process - about how, hey, in the beginning, there’s always this flush of enthusiasm, and you think everything’s going just fine, but that soon peters out, and it’s not actually going just fine - and I guess it undermined my confidence a little. Seriously, it was like having a little bug tunneling into my psyche. So I didn’t write that day, and I was all grumpy as I walked the less beautiful streets, among less content people, and noticed even more how much doing or not doing it affects my mood.

“Still, I did a little the next day, and of course wasn’t grumpy at all, so I guess I just need to keep it up and battle through.”

“And Blip Number 2?”

“Oh. You’re back? Couldn’t stay away, eh?”

“Something like that. Though it’s not like I have much choice, is it?

“Anyway, before that, why not something positive, to balance it out?”

“Like a reverse shit sandwich?”

“Exactly. Some yummy piece of ham in between two pieces of shit (lol).”

“Okay. Well then that’d be how I feel about San Miguel de Allende - apart from that one day - and how happy I am walking the streets after I’ve finished my typing. How beautiful everything is. And how good the life, even though I’m not really part of it, but just to have it there, outside my door, washing over me, touching me, brushing up against me on these strolls down cobbled streets, through plazas, amidst weddings and fiestas and general Mexican contentment with existence.”

“That does sound nice. So you’re gonna stay?”

“I still don’t know. I guess I’ve got six more days on my room, and will have to decide. I guess Baja’s still in my head, and though I worry about things there, I do also know people, and know the area, and love the beauty and...though I do wonder: do I love its mountains and sandy roads as much as I love these winding streets and churches? Love the nature as much as I love the culture? Love the Baja freedom and openness as much as I love this city’s sanity and civilisation? Baja does attract those desert fruits, escaping something, mad and maybe going even madder. And perhaps that’s me also - but, crazy as I am, I’m not sure I’m quite that mad.

“I dunno. We’ll have to see. I love my room and I love my life and I’m happy that the writing’s going well and I dig this place. And Baja’s probably still too hot - still getting up to 35, and mid to low-twenties all through the night - and I’m no great fan of sweating toda la noche and needing blowing air machines and AC - too annoying. Whereas here...the weather’s just awesome: hot and sunny in the day - 22 to 25 - and then cool enough at night to require a nice stack of cosy blankets to get snuggled up in. It’s kind of ridiculous, really, how perfect the weather is.”

“It sounds clear cut to me. You love it there. Why would you even think of leaving?”

“Yeah, just that Baja bug, really. Old habits and associations. And some lovely people. Though I must say, I’m kind of enjoying my anonymity and solititude, and the time it grants me for my own stuff. It’s good to not have intrusions. It’s good to be able to focus. I’m pretty comfortable, to be honest, going 99% of the week without conversing with anyone.”

“Well, if you want some advice...”

“From you? Siempre.”

“See how it goes the next few days. The last minute is far from upon us. No need to decide anything just yet. Take it as it comes - you’ll know what to do when the time’s right.”

“Acuerdo. Totally acuerdo.”

“And...Blip Number 2?”

“Oh, well, I just got in from playing football, and that felt pretty depressing. Number one, I just wasnt as good as I’d like to be, and did a couple of shit things. And, number two, I’d turned up to play for one team and ended up playing for the other, and I guess that ruffled a few feathers and didn’t go down so well, which makes me sad.”

“Blimey. How did that come about?”

“So I have this one chum in town and he plays for a team, and proposed me getting involved. I gave some photos to the organiser on Tuesday and was all stoked for making my debut this morning - but then when the organiser turned up he said there was a problem with the pics (they were too big, despite being passport size) and I couldn’t play. Well, I was a bit miffed by this, to put it mildly: I’d woken at 6.30 especially. I’d skipped my morning’s writing. I’d been all excited about it yesterday and looking forward. And then, of course, there’s that whole ingrained culture clash, where my good ol’ English brain naturally leaps to ideas of the right way to go about things - there’s been days to sort this; it should have been known; and even though says he only found out last night the pics weren’t good enough, there was still time to let me know and save me having to get up so early and walk down and miss my writing.

“In Mexico, of course, it’s all tranquilo and mañana and nobody minds anyway ‘cos they had like 15 players, so not having me’s no big deal. But I’m a little bit fuming, and thinking they probably don’t want me anyway, and wondering if there’s some sort of subterfuge, and bothered that they’re not more sorry. Also...

“The other team’s shown up with only ten men. And ‘cos I’d got there early their manager had already asked me if I could play for them and been all friendly and nice. It seems daft that they’re gonna play with ten and, by the looks of them, get spanked, when I’m there ready, willing, and somewhat able. So I go and have a word and he wants me to get stuck in and I run back to the casa and pick up some more pictures and a pair of scissors - and, easy as you like, he cuts one down to size and Bob’s your uncle. Just gotta wait for half-time and have a word with the ref and then it’s game on.

“I have a word with my mate and he’s not overjoyed but not overly bothered either, says it’s my decision, and I have a think. On the one hand, here’s this team with loads of players who don’t need anyone and don’t seem bothered about me, and then on the other there’s a team with not that many players who want me to play. All I wanna do is a kick a ball like I’d gotten up at 6.30 to do: no big deal, thinks I - it just seems logical.

“Oh, but to throw a spanner in the works, by half-time the team I was shaping up to play for had got the full eleven and were winning 3-0. So I start to think they probably didn’t need me anyway, and could see my way out of this without letting anyone down and still keep the peace.

“I didn’t know what to do. I figured, booted and suited though I was, I should probably back out. But I also had the jonesin’ to play, and what with the game right there it was a temptation difficult to resist.

“Caught on the horns of a dilemma, as I inevtiably am, I decided to flip a coin. I said to the guys, let’s let Dios decide - they’re all good Catholics; no doubt they understand and will accept it when it says I can’t do it and I shrug my shoulders and say, oh well - but the coin says ‘play’.

“And, as you well know, I never argue with the coin.

“Anyway, as it turns out, I played not great and did a couple of shitty things that are completely bugging me. Plus my friend was way more pissed than I’d thought he would be, which made me feel quite sad. And I left the game down and kinda wishing I hadn’t bothered and maybe thinking about retirement. I’m compulsively drawn to playing football - but half the time, for a variety of reasons, it just leaves me bummed out.

“I dunno: did I commit a crime? I just wanted to chase and kick a ball for an hour or so. And when the boot’s been on the other foot, in similar situations, I’ve been all for getting my friend on the pitch, however which way. But - agh! Maybe I should just quit the playing and referee instead: I’m good at that, and pretty much always go home happy from reffin’. Plus it’s just as good exercise anyway, without the frustration. There has to come a day some point when the playing is no more...”

“That’s it? That’s the top slice on the sandwich. Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Yeah, and doesn’t feel as bad as it did an hour ago. But still...I don’t like upsetting the apple cart. You can see why the Mexican tradition is just to try and keep everything smooth and even tell a bunch of porkies rather than risk peeing somebody off. Bloody coin! But I guess he’s always vindicated in the end, right?”

“Coin? What say you, coin?”

But the coin just sits there, silently smiling and waiting for his turn. Talking’s not his thing: he has other uses.

“Projecting on a coin, huh? That’s a new one.”

“It’s all projection, my friend - we’re all doing it always, even on inanimate objects and concepts. It goes deep, that hole - but that’s a discussion for another day.”

“Or maybe for a day in the past, like this one?

http://notwritingjusttyping.blogspot.mx/2013/04/everything-is-karma-and-projection.html”

“Si. Posiblemente. Necesito leer otra vez. Si recuerdo correcto, es una buena.”

“So that’s it? No dreams or signs this week?”

“Nope, nada - which is maybe a sign in itself: no dreams probably means everything’s in order, and I’m in the right place doing the right thing, for once. Though I did have an interesting dream this morning, something to do with peyote and Christianity, which actually referenced, inside the dream, another dream I had about three years ago, so that’s pretty cool. Discussing and contemplating new meanings for old dreams within current ones! I dig that.

“That’s all. :)”

My Debunking Hobby/Habit

“What’s all this debunking you keep talking about?”

“That? You’re asking me that?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Cos...it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing about it?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe I feel people will associate me with the actual beliefs. Or maybe ‘cos it’s a colossal waste of time. Or kind of geeky or...no, it’s probably about the time. And the subject matter.”

“Explain?”

“Well, I’ll tell you how it started: it started with buying that bloody Jon Ronson book last spring - ‘Them: Adventures With Extremists’, just on a whim; a bloody whim - and reading his chapter about David Icke, and thinking there was something fishy about it. So I watched the Icke interview on Wogan - there was something fishy about it: Ronson totally re-arranged the timeline, misrepresented both Icke and the audience reaction - which is all completely ironic, given his recent book about people who got caught in literary dishonesties (but that’s another subject - and...where was I? Oh yeah: next thing I know I’m clicking on ‘flat earth videos’ - ah, to go back to that moment, when I didn’t even know such a batshit crazy belief existed! - and I guess it all started there.”

“What happened? Why didn’t you just laugh and brush it off?”

“Well, you know, all them psychedelics and years hanging around with New Age people - years, let’s face it, BEING a New Age person - I guess there’s still a little crack in my brain that, when presented with mad but persuasively-conveyed information goes like, holy shit, what if that’s true? Happens all the time. Being open-minded and all that. Plus, I was ignorant.

“Anyway, I figured I’d better research it, and see why they were wrong - it didn’t take long: it was weirdly easy to debunk their claims - and, from there, it was just a wee step to thinking, oh well, what I should do is give them this information too, and then they can stop being wrong and stop believing silly things that probably aren’t good for them: that’ll be helpful.

“Well, I got sucked in. I got really into investigating all the claims - the physics, the geometry, the astronomy, the science of it - and...I’ll tell you what: it was COOL actually. I learned a ton. I used a part of my brain I probably hadn’t used since I was a kid. You well know how much I enjoy a good equation. And all that stuff about stars and space travel and photography and gravity - it was great. I became, like, an expert. I understood the theory, and I understood exactly how to disprove every little part of it. And the psychology of it, too - wow! Trying to be rational with humans completely irrational. Trying to understand what was going on in their brains. Seeing how, for many of them, they were simply too far gone. The conspiracy theorist’s mindset. The fear. The desire for certainty in an uncertain world. Dunning-Kruger. Yeah: I learned a ton.

“At a certain point I joined a website called ‘metabunk’ - basically it’s a place that looks at the evidence that conspiracy theorists put forward to support their claims, and tries to get down to the truth of what’s going on. Man, there are some smart people on there! And they’re polite and reasonable and have a really adherence to just figuring out what’s factual, what can be known. What a treat to find somewhere like that on the internet, after the despair-inspiring mess that is youtube and facebook comments: a place where you really can’t get away with any bullshit.

“At first I was mainly just asking questions, trying to get a few final things straight - grokking how ‘Great Circle Routes’ work was a tough one - but then I started making my own threads, posting disproofs, coming up with experiments that flat earthers could do in their own back gardens, without having to rely on photos or videos from others, or trust in ‘evil NASA’ (as they see it). I came up with some pretty good ones. I’m proud of them, to be honest.”

“Like what? What did you come up with?”

“Well, the ‘North Star Test’ is one of my favourite, ‘cos you can do all the measurements yourself, and prove the shape of the earth. I guess it’s similar to Eratosthenes’ original experiment to figure out the circumference of the earth. You...would you like a link?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay. Hold on.”

“I’m holding.”

“Okay. Click here: metabunk.org/posts/189974. That has the whole thing laid out. It’s pretty fool proof. Only problem is, it’s too good - every flat earther I ever presented it to just ran away.”

“What other ones did you come up with?”

“Probably the ‘Mountain Ranges Test’ is the best one: and, as far as I know, a totally unique one, anywhere online. Again, the point is to be able to do the whole thing oneself, without having to rely on high technology, scientists, government agencies, etc, since conspiracy theorists can generally brush all that away with the wave of a hand - unless it suits them not to. This one all you need to know are the elevations of mountains and the distances to them. And, again, it’s pretty fool proof and totally unambiguous.

“Click here if you want to check that out: metabunk.org/posts/207142. It’s a bit more involved and involves some fairly complex trigonometry - you should see the equation I use! it’s like three lines long! - but, you know, I don’t think it’s too difficult to get one’s head around.

“I’m also pretty proud of the ones that were pure research into working out where some of these crazy flat earth beliefs come from. The guy who seems to have started all this, about three years ago, is this far-out lunatic yoga teacher fella called Eric Dubay. He basically read a load of misleading flat earth books written by Victorian ‘Biblical Literalists’ and presented them to the modern world as fact. Gullible space deniers, conspiracy theorists, and religious extremists gulped them up. But he never double-checked on these sources. He never realised they were all based on false assumptions and intellectual dishonesty. Or, probably more likely, he didn’t care, given that they supported what he wanted to be true.

“Anyways, others had debunked pretty much everything he’d done - the video that started it all off was his wonderfull-titled ‘200 Proofs the Earth is not a Spinning Ball’ - but a few of them eluded them. And me with my wonderful research skills cracked the nuts.”

“Like?”

“Like there was this one to do with places in Spain, but he got the names and measurements wrong, so it was difficult to figure out what he was on about. That’s here: metabunk.org/posts/187657. And then this other one which claimed - if you can believe this: a lot of flat earthers don’t seem to be able to tell the difference between ‘south’ and ‘down’ - that the Mississippi would have to flow ‘uphill’ if we were actually on a ‘spinning ball’. The interesting thing about that one, that I had no idea about, is that it’s sort of right, the Mississippi does actually flow ‘up’ - if you strictly define ‘up’ as being ‘in the direction away from the centre of gravity (i.e., the centre of the earth’ - but there’s still nothing weird or unusual about it: it’s all to do with centrifugal force and the fact that the earth isn’t a perfect sphere - hey Garret! - but rather an oblate spheroid. But that’s probably a discussion for another day, if you’re interested; it’s all pretty fascinating stuff, and, like much of this debunking research, led me to learn all kinds of things I had no idea about, but which are super interesting. The link to that is here: metabunk.org/posts/186556.”

“So then what happened?”

“So then I embarked on my fruitless mission to try and fix some strangers’ brains. Went through a whole process of intrigue and fascination; frustration and annoyance; enlightenment and acceptance; enjoyment; compulsion; disbelief; education. It’s been remarkable. We’re talking about a set of people who seem impervious to logic. They’re not even necessarily ‘stupid’ or incapable. And, believe me, I actually developed quite a fondness for some of them. Psychologically, it’s been a fascinating journey - and, despite the magnificence of space and mathematics, psychology is really where it’s at for me. But this is a difficult one to get one’s head around, and I don’t think anyone’s really quite succeeded in cracking these nuts. When a person’s whole identity is wrapped up in a belief - when their rational capabilities are malfunctioning to the extent that they are unable to accept ‘2+2’ - when you factor in paranoia, psychosis, enormous issues with trust and authority, and an inability to separate ‘fact’ from ‘fantasy’...well, let’s put it this way: despite how incredibly easy it is to show the fallacy of the belief, I know of less than a handful of flat earthers who have managed to sort themselves out. I guess when someone is so far gone they believe the entire space program, involving tens of thousands of people, has been faked, and that filming takes place on Hollywood sound stages and in swimming pools..then maybe they’re what’s politely known as ‘too far gone’ to come back.”

“Still, there must be something that can be done. Have you no advice for prospective flat earthers, or those not quite ‘too far down the rabbit hole’.”

“Well, first of all, I hope you’re using the term ‘rabbit hole’ in its original sense - ‘an entry into the disorienting and mentally-deranging’ - rather than the conspiracy theorist’s notion that it’s somewhat analogous to Neo’s choosing ‘the red pill’ - i.e., a journey into truth. They love that shit: all that ‘wake up, sheeple!’ nonsense. And then...

“I dunno, actually. Like I say, I’ve been through this whole journey with it, and seen how fruitless it is to try and ‘convert’ somebody. They want to believe this thing. They’ve got their confirmation bias to protect them from anything that threatens it - ultimately, you’re just a ‘shill’ (secret government agent) if your arguments get too good - and, you know, it gives them a lot too: a sense of community; a feeling of specialness; they’ve got the secret and the truth; there’s a whole world to discover. I can see the appeal in it: they’re the children who believe in Father Christmas and get all the fun and the presents, and we debunkers are the grinches just trying to ruin their party with all our talk of ‘facts’ and ‘science’ and ‘rationality’. It’s a lot more fun believing in cuckoo ideas than it is facing the reality of a world which is pretty much as it appears to be.

“So, no, not really, I don’t have much advice. All the information is out there for those who want it - but wanting it, and having the ability to think logically is the precursor, and that may not be possible for some. I think really I’ve reached the stage where I’m about done with trying to convince others - and why should I, anyway? That’s probably a fallacy of my own - and, let’s face it, it’s not like I run round the streets sorting out everyone’s wrong beliefs - and surely everyone has some (including me, of course) - that would be madness: so why should it be any different because it’s online? That’s the key question, eh? I mean, it’s not like I’ve even encountered an actual flat earther in real life - I only ever meet chemtrailers, really, and maybe a few 9/11 doubters - so really I ought to just ignore them. Though on the one hand I’m grateful for the fascinating journey it’s led me on, and the things I’ve learned...I’m not sure how useful it will be, or how I can apply it, to my actual real life. It’s just a hobby, really. But one that maybe takes up a bit too much time, when there are other things I should maybe be doing.”

“And that advice...?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Well...

“Actually, just this morning I thought: forget all that hi-falutin’ stuff that’s probably over all their heads; forget about intricate arguments, and even tests so they can figure it out for themselves; just start with the basics. Flat Earth 101 is the mantra: ‘The horizon is always at eye level’. It’s maybe the first thing they learn. It’s number two in Eric Dubay’s infamously shoddy ‘200 Proofs’. It’s parroted in memes and discussions groups everywhere. And it’s demonstrably false, and very easy to prove that for oneself. It’s insane that flat earthers don’t even try to figure out if it’s true: all they do - seriously - is look at photos, or look at the horizon, and go, like, ‘yeah, looks about eye level to me’. But what they don’t seem to understand is that the human eye isn’t able to detect things like whether it’s looking down at 0.2° or whatever: for that you need some sort of device - and, luckily, those devices are readily available.

“Number one, you can use an instrument called a theodolite, which will measure the angle to the horizon. Get up to a decent enough elevation, and the angle is clear. You can even download a theodolite app for your phone, as I once did: metabunk.org/attachments/img_1505-1-jpg.20653.

“Number two, you can use actual eyes, by going up somewhere high with a good view of the horizon, setting up the camera level with your eye level, and snapping a photo: metabunk.org/posts/207592.

“Number three, you can make your own ‘water level’ - which will show ‘eye level’ when correctly aligned - and do the same sort of thing: metabunk.org/attachments/horizon-level-liquid-test-jpg.27615.

“Number four, you can use parallel lines to determine where the vanishing point is - and therefore ‘eye level’ - and again show that it’s some distance above the horizon: metabunk.org/attachments/wtc-lines-jpg.28259.

“Number five...I can’t think of a number five. I wish I could, ‘cos it seems like it would sound better if there was a number five. I mean, there are plenty of ways to measure this, but in the category of ones that are easy to prove for oneself...no, it’s gone.”

“I’m sure you’ll let me know if you remember it.”

“I will. And, of course, there are tons of other ways to demonstrate the shape of the earth, but this is just dealing with that basic flat earth claim, and showing how it’s wrong. So that’s what I’d say to a flat earther - or someone on the fence - or someone who’s watched a video and allowed themselves to become temporarily hypnotised by the music and the persuasive voice and the - much like that movie ‘Zeitgeist’ did to a few people I know, several years back - just check this out. Test the basic claim. After all, the reason they say it is because the horizon remaining at eye level is: a) what you’d expect on a flat plane earth (more or less); and b) completely impossible on a sphere. So if they see that’s wrong...well, either they’ll question the whole notion, and hopefully see sense, or dispute what I’ve just presented above, in which case they’re already demonstrating a lack of intellectual honesty and ability, in which case they’re maybe already ‘too far gone’ and/or ‘not worth the time’.”

“I get the sense you’ve reached peace with this.”

“Yeah, I think I have. It’s been an interesting journey. It’s still fun working out the experiments and the debunks. But as far as ‘saving’ others...I just don’t think it’s possible; all I can do is point them in the right direction - like to this beautiful space video, for example: youtube.com/watch?v=_YzeGRFDIms&t=9m34s. If they can watch that and still think ‘space is fake’, there’s just no talking to them.”

“And what about other conspiracy theories? Did you ever get into them? You hinted at chemtrails.”

“Yeah, I did a little, but mostly just reading, learning, coming to a place where I felt I knew why there was nothing in them, and could know enough to explain to believers why, at a basic level. But, I dunno, flat earth just grabbed me. There was something so impossibly wonderful about it. Imagine believing the earth is flat! And what that actually involves, as far as denying everything science and space travel and the exploration of our own planet has taught us. It’s been called ‘the grand daddy of conspiracy theories’, it’s so far out there. And, when I started on it, there were still a lot of areas for the debunkers to grow into, a lot that wasn’t known. Now it is. And still the movement is growing. I guess that’s just the way it is, and especially in this current climate of ‘fake news’ and every single major incident being immediately labelled a ‘false flag’, with videos scrutinised for just the tiniest scrap of ‘evidence’ that there’s something fishy about the ‘official story’, about what ‘the mainstream media’ are telling us.

“Nutters! But whatcha gonna do? And I must remind myself: they make up a tiny minority of the planet, despite what my brain might think after a few hours getting muddy in the weird parts of youtube.”

“Are any conspiracy theories real?”

“Not as far as I can see. I mean, you might say Watergate, Operation Northwoods, the Gulf of Tonkin, maybe MK Ultra - but I think there’s something different about them. Do governments do things that they don’t tell the public about? Of course they do: how could it be any other way? And are some of those things ‘shady’? That too. But the idea that Joe Schmo in his mother’s basement - that’s a stereotype, of course, though it’s not so far away from the reality of the guys who started the chemtrails hoax - is cracking the secrets by freeze-framing youtube videos and finding ‘air bubbles in the International Swimming Station’...it’s laughable, really. So, no: not 9/11; not chemtrails; not the moon landing; not any of the US mass shootings; not shape-shifting reptilian space lizards; not the Illuminati or Bilderberg Group; nothing. I haven’t seen a shred of evidence supporting any of these that stands up to scrutiny, that isn’t easily explained with a bit of logic and proper research and honesty. It’s a shame in a lot of ways - maybe the world would be a more interesting place if there were space lizards and we were actually under a giant dome - but, alas, it just isn’t so. Though I’m obviously happy to debate and discuss this assertion with anyone who feels otherwise (wink).”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t think so; that’s probably long enough. A couple of people might have switched off by now. But probably it’s done me good, to get it all ‘out my system’.”

“That’s a thing for you, eh? Getting things out of your system?”

“It is. It’s becoming something of an addiction, this debunking false ideas, and especially my membership of metabunk. ‘Time consuming’ is a bit of an understatement: there are probably other things I should be doing, like my writing ideas. But every time I switch on my word processor - which also happens to have a built-in connection to the world wide web - I get sucked in, since there’s always someone to debate, some new piece of information that needs to be shared. Lately, I was working on the weird idea from the Charlottesville car attack of a couple of months back, that the girl who died wasn’t actually hit by the car. Maybe that one was useful - the information wasn’t out there; there was evidence to uncover; and it’s kind of a sick one, and close to my heart, given my Charlottesville ties - but, you know, it takes a lot of time. It’s becoming an obsession. I need to do it less.”

“Another in those long line of addictions, eh?”

“Indeed. But I guess they get a little less unhealthy each time I tick one off the list.”

“I wonder what’ll be next?”

“Me too. It’d be nice to be addicted to writing books, rather than just writing things like this. That’s fun - and, if nothing else, it’d get the monkey off my back.”

“That’s what it’s all about for you, eh? Ticking things off the list. Clearing the system. Having ideas, and fulfilling them.”

“I guess it is.”

“Have you looked into that? Thought deeply about it.”

“Probably not as much as I should - or will.”

“I think you’d find it interesting, if you got to the root of that.”

“I think I’d probably dissolve.”