21 Reasons Not to Have Children

As I’m sitting in El Templo de Santa Maria enjoying a rather nice meditation, I start to think about taboos, and about the next great taboo, now that sex – at least in my part of the world – has been so thoroughly explored, expressed, and exposed: now that men and women appear on dating shows shamelessly naked and choose prospective partners based on the way their genitals look (Naked Attraction, 2016); now that Russell Brand jovially lectures audiences of thousands – including his very own mother – on the joys of rimming and being rimmed (Messiah Complex, 2014); and now that anal is so passe as to be almost vanilla, and even such staid fellows as Ed Milliband and Pope Jean-Paul II will freely admit to liking a finger up their bum (citation needed).

So what possible taboo could we come up against next? What’s left, in this age of youporn, Tinder, celebrity dogging shows, and Ryan Giggs?

Well, anyone who’s spent any proper time around me the last few years – or, indeed (may I modestly say) dug my incredible collection of thoughtful, multi-layered, and highly cerebral memes – will know where this is going…

(This is where it’s a good idea for anyone but the seriously twisted to turn back.)

Kids.

Kids, and the notion that making more of them is a seriously bad idea.

Kids as the root cause of all the world’s problems.

Kids as little more than a giant pain in the arse.

I know, I know: what kind of sick, heartless fuck could even dare suggest such a thing?

I guess a little qualifying is in order: a little assurance that I’ve not suddenly gone all eugenic Nazi – a Scrooge, a King Herod, a Pol Pot, all rolled into one – and am still the nice jolly guy you met in real life; who juggled your wee ones on his knee; who took them for ice cream and walkies; who shunned boring old adult company at that party to bounce and roll with them for two hours on that trampoline; who would, in a nutshell, do anything for them, should the need arise, and encourage and support them – and likewise always aim to do nothing to hurt, hinder, or slight them, in even the most trivial of ways.

You know all this, if you know me at all. But still…

(Really. Seriously. Turn off now and go do something useful instead…)

Now…I wasn’t always anti-procreation: in fact, up until about 2 or 3 years ago I was pretty gung ho for the making of a little version of myself, thinking that it would be good for me; that it may be the best way to learn, experience, and express love and selflessness – which some part of me believes is what life is actually about – and that it was my next logical step. In my own haphazard way, I sought to move towards it – naturally, there are steps to be taken, such as finding a partner – and, in doing so, I got to really feel my deepest truths of the issue…

But first of all, some more qualifiers. A moment to recognize that I grew up in a society and a time that didn’t particularly appear to value children, nor to think too deeply about the creation of them (how many of generation, I wonder – my coal-mining village Yorkshire generation – found themselves coming into existence because of a shag behind some pub bins? Because their blottoed mother wanted a knee trembler before her kebab? Because, in short, humans like sex, and when they get drunk, they like it even more, and even less consciously?)

Likewise, I must also recognize that my own existence, parentage, upbringing, and societal conditioning seems to have been expressly suited to creating a mind that would find little merit in family life (mum impregnated at sixteen on her own al fresco post-pub knee trembler, biodad goes motorbiking to Morocco and mum finds inadequate replacement father some months later (arm-wrestling in another pub), and they have a mostly awful relationship which ends in divorce six years later).

Also: there was this one time – not at band camp – when a friend and I drank a ludicrous amount of liquefied San Pedro cactus – ie, tripped on mescaline – and, among many beautiful, inspiring experiences, had the following exchange:

Friend: Dude. Are you okay?

Me: I’m okay. Are you okay? Not cold?

(We would check in with one another every hour or so; we were in the woods maybe twenty feet apart.)

Friend: I’m good. Dude…I just lived and died a thousand times.
Me: Really? Wow. I just had the exact same experience.

So that was neat: simultaneous far-out experience, despite the also very individual nature of our journeys. And true also: I really did feel like I’d lived and died a thousand times. That I would be born as a female, say, and go through her whole entire life, live every minute of it and then grow old and wither away and die – and then back I’d be as some Chinese or Arab baby, later to live a whole Chinese or Arab life, and also die a Chinese or Arab death; and on, and on, and on…

It may not have been a thousand lives, but it was quite possibly several hundred of them; and when I say I re-lived the WHOLE DAMN THING, I absolutely mean it (time, of course, is different, when you’ve consumed about 2 lbs of hallucinogenic cactus).

Later on, we compared more detailed notes, and though there were some incredibly striking similarities throughout the 10-hour journey, there were some notable differences too…

My friend told me experiencing all those other lives (past lives?) and then returning to this one gave him a feeling of incredible gratitude, not just for his own life, but for the lives and presence of his family, his wife and two kids.

Me, on the other hand…

I felt exhausted by it all: by all that being born, and living, and dying.

I got a real strong sense of what it meant, in Buddhist terms, to be on, and to want to escape, “the wheel of life, death, and rebirth.”

It was enough. Done. Too much.

I didn’t want anymore: not just for me, but for anyone – or, at least, for anyone whose existence I might have a say in.

All that living. All those lives. And yet…never knowing, never figuring out…

It seemed so clear. Made perfect, awful sense. And yet…

This seems like a good place to introduce one point of the argument against the making of further human beings: that of the apparent lack of interest – nay, abhoration, even – in doing so by the most enlightened among us. And who are the most enlightened? Well, usually I put forward those such as Ammachi, Ramana Maharshi, possibly Buddha (though it’s difficult to know anything for sure about Buddha; and, in any case, he did actually make a baby, albeit in his pre-awakening, ignorant days); and I suppose there are plenty who would want to throw Jesus into the hat (I hesitate to do likewise, given the possibility that he was perhaps merely siddhi yogi “intoxicated by the spirit”, in the manner of Al-Hallaj – though since he supports my argument, perhaps I should (wink wink)).

Naturally, if I haven’t already, this is where I lose you. But: you know full well by now how my mind works, and what it dwells on. And: we can hardly tackle a possible “next great taboo” without rubbing a few people up the wrong way, can we? ;)

Oh, and didn’t I tell you to stop reading aaaaaages ago? Lol

So the supposed best among us don’t do it – the list of saints and mystics who procreate not is pretty extensive (and since those that do don’t confirm my bias, they can be safely ignored) – and now, having looked at that, and agreed with it (as I’m sure you have), I suppose that then begs the question, who does?

(Here, by the way, is where, were I a stand-up comedian of the standing of someone like Stewart Lee, I would make it plainly clear – through the employment of facial expressions, timing, tone of voice, etc – that I was being ironic and purposefully obnoxious in order to: 1) parody the opinions of other people; 2) make the audience laugh; and 3) still get to express what I actually think without being chased out the building by an angry mob and burned at the stake.

Alas, because, I’m writing this in a church while on holiday in Mexico, a little before closing time, I’m not really able to edit it or dress it up with genuine, intelligent humour, therefore rendering both it and myself a little less controversial, so…could you please do that bit yourself? Ie, just IMAGINE the edge taken off with some clever jokes, a bit of self-deprecation, etc – all delivered by a likeable pudgy face – and I think you’ll find that makes it infinitely more palatable and hardly objectionable at all, and –)

It’s getting a bit long, isn’t it? So what I’m thinking now is that I should just scrap everything I’ve written so far and condense the whole thing into one of those numbered lists you get in those interminable clickbait blogs written by young American hipsters doling out teaspoon-deep lifestyle tips. So…

21 REASONS WHY PROCREATING IS A SERIOUSLY BAD IDEA

(Unless you’ve done it already, in which case it’s totally fine and I love you all lots)

by Gobshite Youthful New Yorker, who’s come up with the whole thing without actually leaving the house or utilizing any genuine life experience or thought; just done a bit of googling, really, and mainly only in it for the money and exposure anyway

#1: Life is Suffering

The Buddha said it – you know, like the real genuine Buddha (the Dalai Lama’s granddad) – and who are we to argue with someone who looks so cool and peaced out while sitting on a shelf in the form of one of those little statues we all love?

“Old age, sickness and death,” he lamented – but that’s just the tip of the iceberg: what about ennui, corporate slavery, mental illness, depression, noisy neighbours, dog dirt, compulsively supporting England at a major tournament, middle-age spread, loneliness, premature balding, excessive nasal hair, and a billion other things besides.

Would you knowingly inflict all this on an as-yet uncreated being, who you professed to love? Imagine the conversation, 40 years down the line, when your depressed, cuckolded, suicidal son comes to tell you he’s about had enough:

Son: Did you know, dad, that life was so hard when you and mum decided to make me?

You: Yes, son – but we wanted something cute to look at, and something to distract us from our own existential torment.

Son: Thanks a bunch.

I know, I know: life is also joy and beer and Netflix and shiny colourful plastic things and farts – but…do you think there’ll be selling little statues of you two and a half thousand years down the line if that’s your philosophy?

(Though, let’s face it, the unnamed prophet of shiny things and fun sure has a lot more followers than Buddha, if we think about it…)

#2: It’s Bad For the Environment

In fact, it’s just about the worst thing you can do for the environment: it’s basically doubling whatever impact you yourself might have – and that’s not even beginning to factor in whatever offspring your offspring might produce.

This is the truth that the politicians will never tell you. Oh, they’ll go on about energy saving lightbulbs and not putting more water in your kettle than you actually need – but that’s all just an ineffectual drop in the ocean compared to the real solution.

Carbon footprint? You just created two more feet

#3: They’re Annoying

We all know this – there’s no need to labour the point.

#4 They’re Stupid

Maybe you think your kids are smart because they can count to 20 – but, big deal, any fool can do that. Hell, on a good day I can count to ONE THOUSAND AND TWENTY, and you don’t see me cartwheeling down the street asking for applause and carnations.

Have you really listened to the things kids say? Like, really, objectively, without sentiment? It’s hardly Wittgenstein, is it? As they interrupt your grown-up adult conversation to stutter and stumble and repeat the opening to some pointless sentence 18 times without really getting anywhere, yet demanding you pay attention to the whole tedious thing.

“But, daddy, I…I…you know, you know when Joe said that dolphins, daddy – when Joe said…erm, erm…when Joe said – not Joe, daddy, when…daddy? You know when Joe said that dolphins…erm…when…and…daddy…when Joe said I…”

We’ll cut it short there. You get the point.

#5 They’re Not Only Stupid, They’re Retarded

There’s an old joke that, personally, I think is disgusting, but I guess it serves to make the point. It goes:

Q: What’s the difference between a child and a mentally handicapped person?

A: You’re allowed to laugh at children when they’re being retarded

Seriously. Again. Listen to them objectively – watch them as though they were an adult friend of yours – you wouldn’t put up with it for five seconds.

To put it another way: you know when someone’s been in a terrible car crash and suffered brain damage and the doctor’s say, “he’s been left with the mental age of a five-year-old” and everyone shudders at the thought of how awful that is?

Well, if we flip it around…that means your oh-so-smart five-year-old has the mental capacity of the drooling wreck of a man who’s had half his brain turned to smush and can no longer tie his shoe laces.

Not so smart now, huh?

#6: It’s Selfish

Why do you want one? As we’ve already seen, it’s not for them – they were quite happy in the bliss of non-existence – so…it must be for you.

You want one because they’re cute and adorable?

Selfish: you just want something nice to look at.

You want one ‘cos you want something to love, and to be loved by?

Selfish: it’s all about you.

You want one ‘cos you can’t think of anything else to do; ‘cos you think it’ll make you happy; ‘cos you hope it’ll take away the boredom?

Selfish, selfish, selfish…

Oh, and if you want to counter that by pointing out how lovely and happy your child is, and that bringing them into existence has obviously been a good thing, for both them and the world, and therefore right…

How about all the ones you didn’t give birth to? How about kiddies 3 thru 12?

If existence is so great, in your belief system isn’t it therefore a little heartless to deny it to so many?

#7 They’re Expensive

Now every time you want to go on holiday, you’ll have to pay double. Plus it’ll be in peak season. Plus they won’t put up for sleeping in a thicket by the side of the road and eating cold beans.

Also, they won’t remember a bloody thing about it, or even much appreciate it at the time.

#8: They Grow Up to be Bastards

Hitler was a child. Donald Trump was a child. Even Charles Manson, Josef Fritzl, and Katie Hopkins were children once, running around carefree and scabby-kneed shining little eyes for adoring mothers and cameras.

It’s perhaps a little harsh and bleak, and not something many of us want to consider – but the fact is: every racist and rapist and bigot and murderer; ever trigger-happy cop, every meathead Marine, every US immigration official; every genocidal dictator, every Nazi war criminal, every WWF fan, every NRA member – they were all children once.

How can you be sure your little cherub won’t be one of them?

#9: Smart People Abstain; and Conversely…

You know who likes making babies? The lower class; the uneducated; drunks and junkies; the hyper-religious; those who want lots of contraception-free sex; and normal people.

And you know who doesn’t? That’s right: enlightened souls; people who have it all figured out; people who know what life is actually for.

Obviously, then, there’s a direct correlation between one’s level of evolution and the number of babies you want to make.

(Obviously, also, this point holds little water, and can be easily debunked with even the most cursory amount of research. But still…)

#10 Your Genes Are Probably No Good

Are you free from all physical, psychological, emotional, and mental problems?

Are you a good and wonderful person, to the core of your being?

If the answer to any of these questions is “no”, what makes you think it’s a good idea to pass on your DNA to a currently pristine, uncorrupted soul?

#11 They’re the Cause of All the World’s Problems

Overpopulation. Famine. Poverty. War.

It’s all children’s fault.

#12 A Child is Not Just For Christmas

Every now and then someone will hold up a baby and say, “Isn’t he just the cutest? Doesn’t it make you want one?”

I have to admit it: when they do that – beyond agreeing with the cuteness thing (sometimes) – there’s a part of me that wonders if they haven’t maybe lost their minds.

They do know they don’t stay babies forever, right?

When someone asks me “if I want one” I don’t only see cute gurgling smiling baby; I see toddler, teen, adolescent, young adult, middle-aged man, old man, and coffin.

The baby bit is pretty short, in the grand scheme of things: a more accurate question would be to point at someone in their 40s or 60s and ask if you want one of them.

#13 It’s Just Nature/Evolution Having Its Wicked Way With You

Everything I’ve said above, you already know, and no doubt agree with. And if you’ve ever spent any time with kids, you also know how dreadful it can be, and how offputting to the idea of making any.

But nature is wily – as well as selfish and cruel – and has many trump cards up its sleeve, in its bid to make you its puppet…

That screaming, tantrumming baby you’ve been on the brink of murdering the past 3 hours?

See how it suddenly turns and smiles at you, with its big pure eyes, and, in an instant, makes you forget everything and even think about wanting more.

What about that person you’re in love with, can’t get enough of, are literally INTOXICATED BY?

And the abandon you feel in your sex (and in your brain chemistry) when you throw caution to the wind, FOR ONE SPLIT SECOND – and another life is born.

You think that’s you? You think that you’re in charge, and making that choice?

And then there’s that woman there with the pretty face, the flash of cleavage, the reveal of belly – all temporary, fleeting, soon transformed – and for some reason you have to get on top of her.

We’re just dogs. Slaves to evolution. Automatons of Schopenhauer’s “Wille Zum Leben”, seemingly intent on filling the planet with human meat and houses.

You think about it and see if I’m wrong.

#14 It’s Bad For Your Soul

The whole point is to get off the wheel of life and rebirth. To then purposefully put another being on it…

Well, that’s bad karma, man, sure to come back around…

#15 There’s Enough of Them Already

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s no shortage of humans on the planet – it’s not like kids are water in a drought, desperately needed, the call going urgently out for men and women to get it on and introduce more bodies into the world before it’s too late.

Seven billion and counting. The world simply don’t need more kids.

If you want something to love, adopt an orphan. Do something selfless. Genuinely serve the planet, and another.

#16 It’s Mainly Just Sex We Want

Imagine this: imagine you get to go meet God – the head honcho, the big cheese, the grand cajone – and you can request one thing of Him/Her/It.

Imagine you say to God, “God, man, you right royally fucked up by mixing sex and procreation. Sex is fun, man: it’s about one of the best things two humans can get up to. Like, just a perfect way to enjoy our wonderful bodies, get high, have some recreation – so why this seemingly bizarre and arbitrary connection with procreation?”

God mumbles something about primitive man not understanding how to make more of himself, therefore She needed to introduce all these complex biochemical functions, so that the males, much like a guppy or a rhinoceros, would feel compelled to chuck a load of spunk up a woman’s vagina, and the female, in turn, would want it.

“Yeah, God, I get that – but, thing is, we’ve moved beyond that now. We understand how things work. We can do things consciously now. We don’t need to be unconsciously, subliminally forced to continue the species.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I suggest this: make it so that conception can only occur after a man has consumed, say, 12 tomatoes within the two hour period leading up to insemination. That way, all procreation – well, pretty much all procreation; a few weird cases aside – would be conscious, desired, thought-through, and in the hands of the usually irresponsible male. Imagine the situation a few generations down the line. People could still have their fun, and there’d be no more teen pregnancies, no more humans as a result of drunken one-night-stands, no more overpopulation in famine-stricken countries (one would hope). It’d be utopia.”

“That’s a pretty good idea.”

“It doesn’t have to be tomatoes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

#17: You Won’t Actually Like Them That Much

But you’ll be stuck with them. And you’ll adapt. And nature will fill you full of love. And you’ll look past most of the maddening things they do.

Also, you’ll never, ever be able to admit to not really liking them, and the suppressing of that will make you make do.

Even prisoners come to love the cells they live in, and ache when they have to leave them behind.

#18: They’re Worse Than The Worst Kind of Immigrants

They come over here. They don’t speak the language. They leech off the system. Don’t lift a finger for themselves. Take take take. Expect everything handed to them on a plate.

Yup: that’s kids for you.

And now, to balance it out…

·         Yes, they are cute and adorable and extremely lovely and fill you with all kinds of glorious feelings, and enrich life in a way that being a serial singleton can never do

·         You’re really smart, so you’ll make an excellent parent, and your kids will be awesome

·         The chances are EXTREMELY GOOD that they won’t rape, kill, defraud, or otherwise bring monumental suffering to others

·         It’s probably the natural thing to do, you know?

Leaving Baja

Tomorrow, after nine months in Baja California

I leave for pastures new

As ever in my life

It’s been a

Strange

Wonderful

Confusingly amusing

Time

First half as a school teacher in dreadful Cabo San Lucas

Second as a hot springs bum living barefoot in shorts

I flew in last August

Freed from my year-long UK gloom

And stepped into a whole new role as

School teacher to a bunch of Mexican kids

Went to Costco to buy shirts and trousers

Was shown my desk, my books, my laptop

Worried about how the hell I was going to be a teacher

Sleepless on the night before the kids arrived

No plans, no ideas, except –

Get to know them and take it as it comes

And trust in my inherent smarts and –

Whaddya know? It works

The kids are great

They speak wonderful English

They’re smart and polite and mature and articulate

They’re much better than the kids back home

And for the next five months we

Well

Ya know

We do the teacher/student thing

Sometimes imparting knowledge

Sometimes nothing more than a glorified babysitter

Sometimes frustrating

Questioning education itself

(Mostly me, though sometimes them)

And oft times lots of fun

The sharing of ideas

The seeing young minds spark

The learning from them

The investigations of literature and good movies and

Our differing cultures

All in all, Mexican school kids amazed me

In all those months, I didn’t see one cross word between them

An entire school of friends

A real questioning of the notion that

Teenagers are overwhelmed by hormones and emotions

And it makes them crazy and awful

Unless, of course, the suggestion is that somehow Mexican kids have

Different hormones and emotions than English kids

And that’s why they’re better here

But somehow I suspect it’s something different

Something to do with families

The idea of families

And the way its carried out

I think I do a pretty good job

Give my all to trying to help them

Enjoy it when in the classroom, in front of the class

See development and improvement

But then, of course, there’s the other side

Just as there was when I was a teacher in England

Loving the kids, the time we’re together (more or less)

But struggling with the administration

With other teachers

With bureaucracy and box-ticking

And mostly ignoring all that

And doing instead what I believe is right

Which is probably what got me fired just after Christmas

My own ingrate and grating personality

My inability to do things the way others want them doing

My insistence on turning off classroom air conditioners

Despite being repeatedly told not to

(It often made hearing quiet kids’ voices impossible

And sometimes froze them too)

My shunning of useless but expensive text books

The school had made everyone buy

Even though everyone – students, teachers –

Felt they were rubbish

And I felt education more important than

Following silly orders

Or perhaps it was some other manifestation of something

The way I spent the Christmas holidays not wanting to go back

Wanting to continue being free in the hot springs

The way I could very clearly see that

My heart had gone out of the job

The way I was only doing it because I’d said I would

And thought it would be good to finally see some commitment through

Not wanting to let the kids or the school done, but –

Life is weird...

All because of a bag of bad raisins...

But that’s another story

One I suppose I’ll tell if asked;

In any case

On January 9th, my five months as a Mexican school teacher came to an end

And my five months dwelling in hellacious Cabo San Lucas

A city built only to serve the needs of fat Americans

A city little more, really, than a roaring highway

A bunch of dust and fumes

A Wal-Mart and a Costco

(The “M1-on-Sea”)

With little escape from the noise of traffic and nightclubs and dogs

I felt sorry for people who had paid all that money to vacation there

Wondering if they knew what they were getting themselves into

As they themselves wandered ugly streets

Searching for good times

What an awful waste

How sad for them

But then...

The people we’re talking about here

Seemed the very worst kind of Americans

Almost another species entirely

Grotesquely fat torsos hovering over stick thin legs

Necks and backs bent

In unnatural postures

Shuffling along, barely able to walk

(A life at the wheel, at a desk, in front of the TV?)

I saw them in Wal-Mart

(I shopped at Wal-Mart! I never thought I’d stoop so low!)

Scanning the shelves gormlessly

Empty, stupid expressions

Searching, lost

Cabo San Lucas

Made me completely racist

Racist against Americans

Racist against a certain type of American

(Though I think I may have used that brush to tar the lot of them)

And it made me wonder –

Was that emptiness

That lostness

That fear

What the Mexicans saw when they looked at me too?

For, in content brown Mexican eyes and faces

(And lovely Mexican hair)

I never saw those lost expressions

The anxiety

The uncertainty as to what life was about

That I saw in weird American expressions

I wanted to get a t-shirt made:

“No soy Americano, soy Ingles”

Just to make it clear

I wasn’t one of THEM

But did they know it anyway?

Or did I look the same

As I too compulsively shopped for beans and tuna and

Something to fill the void?

Poor Americans!

Poor silly fat Americans!

All fatuous and shallow and –

Well, that’s enough of that

(For now, anyway)

What else did we do in Cabo?

Well...

We made a good friend

And sometimes one friend is enough

To make life tolerable

And played a lot of tennis

And a lot of chess

And boardgames, and ate, and

Spent time with the lovely family

And that was grand

Also...

We lived in a tent

After trying an apartment for a month

A great little house, actually

In a desirable neighbourhood

Convenient and with everything one would want

And it made me crazy

Sitting within those four walls

The noise of neighbouring air conditioners

And neighbouring dogs

(The number one improvement to Mexico, surely,

Would be to exterminate all the dogs

Or, at least, have them de-barked)

And I had to leave

Went up a hill

Above and behind town

Up a sandy arroyo

Pretty much back in pristine nature

No dogs

No traffic

Only the occasional sound of Cabo nightclubs

When the wind was blowing the wrong way

And the wonderfulness of sleeping in a tent

Of waking up in a tent

The cool breeze

The naturalness of it all

Infinitely better

Though perhaps slightly weird

To be a uniformed school teacher

In a posh private school

Living thus

But, oh well

It suited me

It was what I needed

I tried the other

Couldn’t sleep

Went half-crazy

So a tent it was

And I was much happier that way

And also freer to leave town on weekends

Zoom direct to the hot springs when school broke on Friday

And sometimes stay right till early Monday morning

Wake up around 4.30

And zoom the 90-minutes back

(School started at 7

I was often there for 6

And getting up at 4.30/5 was neither unusual

Nor unwelcome

The perfect time of day in this Baja autumn heat

A few chill hours before work

And an early night by 8/9

Nothing else to do anyway

In the Baja darkness

In the CSL night)

And...

What else?

What else did I do in Cabo?

August through December

Two thousand and sixteen?

Well...

That may be about it

I don’t really remember

I do remember lots of evenings at the school

Ostensibly preparing classes for the following day

But also diverting in internet ways

Debunking the flat earth

Playing games

Reading about soccer

All my usual things

That I do when I can’t think of anything else to do

And which pretty much stopped

The moment I came to the hot springs full-time

Oh –

I also remember soccer

Playing soccer with the kids

Sometimes instead of lessons

(Well, they would only have been dancing anyways)

And that was wicked fun

Some beautiful moments

Life in the old legs yet

But

Beyond this

Not much more

Not a glorious time, looking back

And actually somewhat lonesome too

(Not lonely, nor even alone

But definitely “lonesome”)

(A problem which disappeared once I came to the hot springs

Once I put myself in a place that suited me, that was me

Where I felt, as a friend so aptly put it,

Very much “a fish in water”)

Plus –

I wrote not

Even though I wanted to, and had the time

And you know how I get when I don’t write

The pipes get blocked

My head gets weird

And

Conversely

When I finally do do it

As I did so memorably on New Year’s Eve

The pipes are cleared

My head emptied and expunged

My heart set free

My soul doth fly

And, so often,

The very nature of reality gets changed

I felt twelve-feet tall after that session

(I’d been a squashed little mouse beforehand

Lowly and flat)

And it’s no surprise that things shifted so soon afterwards

My confession to the Universe

That my heart wasn’t in it

A surefire “go ahead”

For t’old Universe to pull some levers

Put a plan into action

And work it so wonderfully

With some bad raisins and –

Ah, writing!

Ah, my blesséd friend!

Ah, the thing I think about more than pretty much anything else!

The writing that I’m doing now

That is also making me feel wonderful

Even though it may be devoid of any merit or purpose

(Not for me to judge)

And so –

When I came to the hot springs

Finally

Around January the Twelfth

My plan to spend three days contemplating things

Clearing my head

Awaiting an answer as to what to do next

What should happen? When lazing in those glorious pools

But

The re-emerging of long-forgotten book ideas

Some books I’d even started

Some more than 20,000 words in the bag

One after another – five of them, to be precise –

Presenting themselves

Writing themselves

In my floating brain

Sentences and paragraphs

And me saying,

Yes, okay, we’ll do it – one day

(Always holding them off at arm’s length

For although I love them

I’m also afraid of them

Afraid of the work

Afraid of what it will mean)

Three days I said I’d come to the hot springs

Three days to get an answer as to the next direction

And by the time the three days were up

So glorious had that time been

The pools

The beauty

The weather

The people

That I forgot all about the question

And the notion of moving somewhere else

Became ridiculous

For why would a man want to go elsewhere

When he was already in paradise

And had everything he needed?

So I stayed

And dedicated my time to building and perfecting hot pools

(When I’d arrived, there’d been three-quarters of one;

Within a few weeks

There were six

A whole range of temperatures

To suit every kind of bather

From the self-boiler

To the six-hourer, such as myself)

It was a great, healing time

For

I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this before

But, much as I always loved the hot springs canyon,

Returning there as I had done in 2009 and 2015

And now this year/last

Was also a source of pain

And a trouble to my soul

You see

My time there in ’99 had been so divinely glorious

So full of experience and learning

Life-shaping moments

And friends

That whenever I returned

I was always harking back to that time

Always seeing it as it was then

Always noticing the differences

And everywhere I looked

Ghosts

Ghosts of my former friends

And ghosts of me

Former versions of me

Younger

Freer

So full of life and optimism

Learning lessons now old and discarded

Jumping into pools joyfully naked as a babe

The whole of life ahead of him

Having made none of the mistakes I have made

These past eighteen years

And me now so clearly

Strapped to an aging body

Closer to the grave

Stumbling down a one-way street

And in the mirror of that ever-youthful canyon

So clearly changed and running out of time

I mean –

I know that seems unnecessarily bleak

And no doubt I’m exaggerating it somewhat, to make the point

But ghosts is what I saw

And old memories is what dominated

And sadness is what I felt

Mixed in there with the

Present-day beauty and wonder

And –

The point is

That was the way it was

But coming back here in January

Something else happened

I was so happy and even blissed out

And enjoying all the new people

And the building of the tubs...

Those old memories became superseded

New memories superimposed

My mind updated

The ghosts banished and extinguinshed

Everything brought up to date

A head no longer stuck in 1999

But right here in the present

Happy to be in the canyon as it is today

Happy to be in this body as it is today

Running

Jumping

Splashing in the water

Swimming in the pools

Drinking the river

Discovering new things and ways

And that was pretty groovy

Supremely groovy

Incredibly good

Though, of course, not totally good

For, as time passed, I began to see the flipside too

The flipside of the local Mexicans

Who I had always idealised and romanticised

(“The only angry people I’ve ever seen in Mexico

Are gringos and Europeans”)

(See also: ‘The Myth of the Noble Savage’

A must for anyone who’s fond of using the words

‘Indigenous’ and ‘Native’)

And the flipside of my own inability to connect with other people

My intolerance at hearing, over and over again

The same old sentences and conversations

(New Age chatter I would have been a happy part of

Fifteen years ago)

And, of course, those dear blesséd empty-headed Americans

Who cruise in

Sit in the water next to you

Ask you where you’re from

And then use that as a springboard to

Go into a forty-five minute monologue

About some boring thing from their life

Or someone I’ll never meet and have no interest in

Or, more likely, to leap from one yawnsome topic to another

Barely related

Silly tangents

With zero consideration for the listener

Or –

OMG! Is this what I’m doing here?

Indeed it is!

Just

Self-absorbed

Meandersome chattering

About things that are of no interest to you

Non-sequiturs

Complaints and –

But then:

You’re here out of choice

I’m not forcing it on you

And to give myself credit

I’ve avoided about fifteen hundred words of complaining about others

Which I’ve actually been carefully nurturing and brain-brewing

For quite a few days now

So –

All in all,

Everything’s groovy

I came in January

I had marvellous times

I got my head updated

I cured my lonesomeness

I figured out what I wanted to do

I chalked a bunch of things off the list

I even did some work

(A job offered, serendipitously,

The day before I got fired)

For important people back in England

Unwashed

Barefoot

Shirtless

Sitting under mango trees

Among cowpats and abandoned buildings

Finally doing that

“Working remotely in exotic locations” thing

So many of us dream about

(And earning about four months’ worth of Mexican teaching salary

In three easy weeks)

I’d done the same work in rainy grey England

Enclosed by four walls

And gone mad with it

But working outdoors in the Mexican sun...

The work felt marvellous

And then the beginning of March came and I got...

Bored

Restless

Wanted to do something else

Go someplace else

I guess fulfilled with my hot springs life

And ready for more

For

Beautiful as this life is

There’s only so much nothingness a guy can take

Especially when spring comes around

(March generally gets me feeling

Ready for action

After my winter hibernation and slumber)

And yet

I was tied to it

Committed to await the visit of lovely friends

Flying in from England and Canada

Filling the whole of April

I didn’t do much the rest of March

Save my hike across to the Pacific

At the beginning of the month

(Notable desire ticked off the list

Perhaps the fulfilment of everything here)

(You do realise, don’t you, that a great deal of my life is simply

“Ticking things off the list”?

I do them because I think of them

And because I want to see what’s on the other side of that thinking

Or, at least, be free from thinking about them

And know that doing them is probably the best way to reach that place

A place of both

Freedom and emptiness

But, again, that’s another story...)

March passed

Things got kind of sucky in places

But perhaps that’s a good thing too

Makes the leaving of here easier and more tolerable

And will hopefully make the being away from here

Easier and more tolerable too

I’ve been ready to go almost six weeks

But I guess had some things that needed accomplishing

Needed seeing through to the end

Or other things that needed to fall into place

And the visit of my friends

Was great and good

Awesome times

With the kiddies

In the pools

Swimming with whale sharks

And seeing my first ever dolphins

(From gloom to surprising spontaneous joy

In the blink of an eye

Just like everyone always said it would be)

Now, I suppose all is done

Everything accomplished

All avenues explored

And as the heat grows more oppressive

The time is surely here

And I at last have a clear picture of the next step

The answer and direction I originally came for

Those first three days in January

And so

Tomorrow

I say goodbye

Get back on the road

Venture into the unknown

And move towards

That

Relationships

Relationships. We all grow up thinking we'll have one, and a good one at that - but, conversely, we've all heard that fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, and if we were to factor in the number of long-term non-marriage relationships that end in separation, the number would be much higher. Let's face it: if we're single and we've had at least one relationship, that means we're currently operating at a 100% 'failure rate'. Even if we cracked it at only the third or fourth attempt, that still puts our 'success rate' at only 20-25%. The statistics are kind of damning. And if you're a hip, still young, good looking single, as millions are, you're probably wondering if you'll ever find someone (in this world of millions of hip, good looking singles, just like you).

It's an interesting conundrum to consider: if statistics, our actual life experience, and the world around us tells us that happiness in a long-term relationship is unlikely and elusive, why do we believe in it so strongly? Why do we think we have it coming? Where does this idea come from? Do we blame fairytales and Hollywood, for all their happy-ever-afters? Or perhaps that one-in-a-thousand couple we know that do make it - who do 'live the dream' of "soulmates" and "truly adoring one another" - and therefore put into our heads not only the desire to have what they have, but also the notion that we deserve it too.

And yet: how often do we go beyond the question of the kind of person we want to be with, and ask instead the question, "am I the kind of person I want to be?" How often do we ask ourselves if we're truly in a position to attract that dream other we can spend the rest of our lives with, and if that's really what we deserve and are ready for?

Relationships are tricky. The older we get, and the more we refine our tastes and personalities, the smaller the pool we have to choose from. Our tolerance for others decreases, as well as our ability to make the necessary compromises that living closely with another requires. Maybe we've been single so long we've grown used to it, and ultimately find the presence of another, though welcome, an intrusion and, at times, an annoyance not worth the bother. And yet, we want another. Someone to share our thoughts and lives with. Someone to hold. Someone to laugh with, and to ease the pain.

And then: suddenly I wonder how this would read if I changed all the "we"s and "our"s to "I"s. To personalise it. To make it true to my experience. I mean, who am I speaking for, with these grand, sweeping collectives? How can I generalise? And what about all those who don't fit the criteria?

Am I really not just talking about myself, and a small selection of people I know who match what I feel?

Damn, it's hard to write this type of thing, when one has the kind of mind that also likes to try and think a little deeper. No wonder Elephant Journal or those other lightweight blogs have never published anything I've sent them (I've never sent them anything).

In any case: what was I saying? Something about something. Blah blah blah. I'm alone, and destined ever more to be so - not because of other people, but because...of me.

But at least I'm not alone in that.

Lol. ;)

...

What are the components of a relationship? What is it that needs to be in alignment in order to make them work?

Perhaps when we're young we don't think to ask questions like that: we go with immediate and obvious things, such as physical and sexual attraction, fun, and whether or not we feel "love" (whatever that is), and get an often enough dose of fireworks or butterflies.

Of course, when we get a bit older, we realise fireworks tend not to last too long and, pretty as butterflies are, we probably want more from a life partner than something lovely and fluttering to point our eyes at.

The last few years - well, the few years before I seem to have mostly forgotten about the idea of a relationship - I tended to think that having compatible lifestyles were the most important thing - which is not too far from my mother's advice of making it with someone who is first and foremost an excellent friend. Shared interests and outlook, et cetera. The rest, all being well, will follow.

But, still, there's more to it than that, right? There's...

Physical attraction
Sexual chemistry and compatibility
Intellectual connection
Shared sense of humour
How and where to live
Having or not having children
Ideas of raising them
Getting on with the other's family
Beliefs about work and money
Plans for the long-term and the future
Cultural compatibility
Psychological, energetic, and emotional connection
Commitment
Religious and/or spiritual beliefs
And probably lots more...

Is that making it unnecessarily complex? Or does that reflect something of the truth of the situation?

I mean, we want it all these days, right? Our partner is not just our bedrock, our foundation, the thing we build our lives on - how unromantic! - but also, surely, a great deal more: our prime source of entertainment; our shopping buddy; our dance/drinking partner; and the one who has to fulfill all our needs and whims, whether it's humanly possible or not (he jests).

I've thought about this a lot, about how unfair it seems that others want so much, when it appears so unrealistic. And I wonder about other times and places: about other, more traditional cultures, and about men from the past, like Einstein or Charles Darwin, who surely loved their wives, and had happy relationships, but didn't look to them for their all (eg, scientific and philosophic conversation and fulfillment). And yet...

It's like a bug, in my head and in the head of many others. That mental checklist, whether we're aware of it or not, and how perhaps even ticking 17 out of 21 boxes ain't quite enough...

...

If I could, I'd make a little grid - maybe 5x5 - and in each box write one now-laughable reason why someone might break up with someone, or not get with them in the first place (imagined or, more likely, otherwise), then I'd say, "Let's play relationship break-up bingo!" and offer prizes for anyone who could complete a line or even a full house (no one could get a full house, surely).

But, I can't: I'm on an iPhone 4 sitting under a mango tree, tapping away with my thumbs, just kind of seeing if, sans laptop, I can still satisfy my incurable need to transcribe the words of the invisible, ever-demanding bee that lives in my brain (if you know what I mean).

In other words: you'll have to use your imagination. Sorry. ;)

...

Why write all this? Why write all this now, when I don't really think about this stuff anymore. Tried it, you know, and don't seem to be very good at it. Mostly let it go.

And yet, the words are there, and the idea to share them here, and to see what happens.

Why, it can only be that "pesky bee", and reasons presently unknown; that's all. ;)