Happy Birthday Wherever You Are Jonathan

My brother, Jonathan, is 42 years old today. I haven't heard from him for a long time now, which is probably a bi-product of me falling out with my mother, big time. I ain't going to lay that story on you right now - though I might later. Anyway, the thing is, Jonathan and I used to have some sort of psychic connection. Many years ago we used to do experiments, in which we would try to communicate with each other. Almost without fail, we would both be able to note exactly what time and what day we were trying to "communicate" with each other. There were no words in these communications, just feelings. I would become aware of my brother, even though he was over 100 miles away.

Both of us developed an interest in things "psychic" and "spiritual" in our teens. An interest he maintains to this day. As for me, well, I guess I am still sort of interested, but not like I used to be. In fact, I am riddled with doubts.

I'm not sure if I'm an atheist or an agnostic, which I guess makes me an agnostic. Over the last so many years I have definitely veered in the atheist direction. I have begun to consider that "God" is a construct; I've read enough theology/ mythology/ anthropology/ psychology to convince me that ALL religions are fabrications, but that does not necessarily mean that there is no God, as such. There may be a God of some kind. Then again there may not be.

I'm reading "Conversations With God" (part 3) by Neale Donald Walsh right now, but he doesn't say anything that I couldn't cobble together myself from all the New Age books I've read. He's sold millions of books, probably many of them to people who actually believe Walsh is channelling God. I think Walsh is channelling himself, which is fine. I guess "Conversations With Who I Imagine God Is" would be too cumbersome a title for the publisher, yes? "Keep it short and snappy, Neale," is what the suit at Hodder & Stoughton probably said.

I can imagine my brother, Jonathan, reading this book: all critical faculties abandoned for the sake of his beliefs. That's kinda where me and Jonathan started parting ways. I started getting way cynical about these New Age gurus.

My cynicism started, ironically enough, at The Findhorn Foundation, where I turned up in the late Autumn of 1993. I was on what I thought of as a spiritual pilgrimage. I had got rid of almost all of my material possessions and was following my inner guidance, which first led me to spend three months at The Iona Community, and then a further five months in Findhorn. The thing I found at Findhorn was that they weren't too willing to share the spirit of the place if you didn't have the money to pay for it. I was kind of lucky, because although I was skint, some kind souls on my "experience week" actually - without being asked, I might add - paid for me. I never even got to find out who it was that did so. Someone else - again, anonymously - paid for me to stay an extra week as a "departmental guest". An auspicious start, you might think, but later on, when I rented a caravan on the Findhorn site - signing on and claiming housing benefit - I found myself up against a lot of resistance. I persevered, regardless, because I felt I had a "calling" to be there. Not everyone had my perseverance. One poor unfortunate, who presumably also felt he had a calling, was taken by a community member and dumped at the Forres roundabout; and that was the last that we saw of him. Hardly in keeping with Eileen Caddy's "guidance" that "no-one shall be turned away".

It wasn't just the whole money-making machine thing that turned me off Findhorn, it was the way my eyes were opened to the fact that about 90% of the community and its guests were there, not because of some spiritual calling, but out of psychic desperation. Findhorn was NOT a joyful place. The smiles you saw were the fixed grins you see on manic-depressives going into a high. There was little evidence of smiles in people's eyes.

One thing that got my goat in particular was the amount of people who believed in Sai Baba: the ugly Indian guru with the Afro locks who could make ash and rings appear "out of thin air". I used to wonder why he bothered. Was it to convince unbelievers? If so, he was singularly failing to convince me. Any sixteen year old magic enthusiast could pull a stunt like that, especially whilst wearing a baggy gown with long sleeves. It would make more sense to worship Paul Daniels, David Blaine or - god help us all - Derren Brown. Surely, if Sai Baba were an incarnation of God he would at least do the decent thing for unbelievers and pull off a miracle that couldn't be questioned, like, say, make a herd of elephants appear out of thin air. Or, how about a huge mountain of food, which could then be distributed to all the malnourished children in India (which would be a double-whammy of miracles). Now, try suggesting to anyone in Findhorn that Sai Baba is nothing more than a cheap conjurer and you'd be drummed out of the place, rather like the poor, homeless guy I previously alluded to.

Don't get me wrong though, I kinda fell under the spell of Findhorn while I was there too. Aesthetically, it is one of the most beautiful places in Scotland, and there is definitely a "feeling" about the place, but more than that I can't give it credence for. One of my worst Findhorn experiences was attending a lecture about Andrew Cohen. Andrew Cohen is a "guru", though I can't think for a minute why he should be. I read his book, by chance, not long before the lecture, and it was basically a paranoid rant against his mother and the guy who had once been his guru. It was full of clichés and riven with pseudo-spiritual drivel. Even the most hypnotised New Age acolyte would have to see this man as a self-deluded megalomaniac, I thought (even at the height of my New Age believing). So, I attended the lecture, thinking that he must have some magical charisma. I was expecting to meet the man himself. Instead, I met five willowy, rather vacant - but also quite attractive - looking women, who wheeled out a television and put on a video of Andrew Cohen at a question and answer session. I watched in growing disbelief. Not only did the man have no charisma whatsoever, he had an hysterical laugh, which barked out of his mouth for no apparent reason, at the most unlikely of times. I was well and truly gob-smacked and finally convinced of how fucking stupid human beings are and how fucking desperate they are to be guided, by anyone, even paranoid schizophrenics.

I left Findhorn in March 1994, and I left behind a sexy, very-loving New Age hippie chic by the name of Delwyn Lavender. She was, in truth, not my type, but when I first got together with her I had some experiences that transcended the sexual and seemed to be "spiritual". Even in my cynicism, I cannot quite dismiss these experiences. Nonetheless, on a day-to-day level, me and Delwyn were chalk and cheese. She was a new age acolyte through and through. There was something elfin, something fairy-like about the girl, and I was very drawn to that, but that in itself wasn't enough for me. I still needed to talk about the dark side of my soul (and the dark side of hers), but as far as she was concerned there was no dark side. Maybe she was all LIGHT. Or maybe she was just a little bit retarded. Sounds cruel? Well, four years after we split up - during which time she didn't communicate with me once - she phones me up out of the blue. I was really pleased to hear from her. D'you know why she phoned me though? To try to get me to join a fucking Amway pyramid selling scheme. After I didn't bite, that was it, she never contacted me again. I often wonder what happened to her. I know she got married to someone - I think he's an electrician - called Goldsborough or something like that. I know also she had a kid, who's maybe only a couple of years older than my kid.

I wonder about Delwyn. Was she stupid? Or was she somehow connected to a LIGHT that I just didn't understand? She'll be in her mid-thirties now and her kid will be maybe eight years old. I wonder, will Delwyn still be spiritual? Or will she be some meat-eating, dope-smoking cynic with an ADHD kid bouncing off the walls?

Thing is, I'm wondering all these things now, now that I'm having to come to terms with the fact that I might die very soon. Ten days of constant headaches is not good - not when you nearly died of a brain haemorrhage six years earlier.

I can hardly look at this computer screen. It hurts. But to fuck with the pain, I NEED to write. I need to communicate this (though, who to? I don't know).

Hey, I'm going to be a bit embarrassed if I don't die soon, eh? People will be able to laugh at my hypochondria. But you know what, I'll be able to take it. I'd rather be laughed at than be dead. Especially as being dead - at the moment anyway - looks like being just one big, black void.

Another old girlfriend, Karen Campbell - who I am still in touch with, and who I still have a great respect for - asked me when I lost my "faith". I tried to explain - in brief - that it was when I had my own "near death experience". I actually had two "near death experiences". The first was on the 4th September 2001, when I had my brain haemorrhage. The second was about a week and a bit later when I discharged myself from hospital and had a second attack. Did I see a tunnel of light? Did I meet my maker? Was Jesus waiting for me with open arm? No, all there was was darkness and pain. Christians amongst you - and I doubt there are any reading this - will no doubt assume I'm Hellbound (well, fuck you!).

The thing is, it was nothing really to do with any of that. You see, eight months earlier, my partner - the woman I thought of as my soul-twin - announced she was pregnant. It wasn't something I'd wanted to hear, but over the coming months I made the mental and emotional adjustment and had not only come round to the idea, but was delighted by it. Su and I had planned a water-birth at home, and that we'd have all our friends round to share it (though not the actual birth itself) and it was going to be one wonderful party. It was going to be perfection itself. We were both as happy as a couple of hippies in a magic bus. Then, just two weeks before our child was due to be born, I had a brain haemorrhage.

Forget the woe-is-me shit, imagine how that felt for Su. She is eight and a half months pregnant and her man almost dies. Not only that, the child is in breach and she has to have a caesarean. And once she gets home from the hospital she has to look after a new born baby AND her man, who is bed-bound, photophobic and extremely sensitive to noise (not to mention the fact that the doctors give him a 50:50 chance of living a year).

For me, September 2001 was the month that God said FUCK YOU to me. I think he also said FUCK YOU to the population of New York (I watched the plane go into the 2nd tower while I was in hospital).

Or maybe God didn't say FUCK YOU. Maybe God just wasn't there at all. Maybe there never was a God. Maybe I wasn't - as I had previously imagined - being looked after. And anyway, why would God look after me and not say... well, for starters, the six million Jews that Hitler exterminated or the 3,000 twin tower workers that Bush, Cheyney and Rumsfeld exterminated.

Yes, I know, I'm ranting now - and I know there's lots of you out there that still believe the ex-CIA operative Osama Bin Laden did it - but bear with me, coz I'm not going to stop. And the reason I'm not going to stop is I think I am dying.

"Oh you're not dying, Dee, stop being so fucking melodramatic!"

Oh no? Well look, I challenge you to go an have a brain haemorrhage and then six year later, suddenly develop a headache which lasts for ten days - even outdoing good old paracetamol - and not consider the possibility that you might - just might - be facing a reasonably imminent death. Think you can do it? Well, fuck off and stop being so judgemental.

And listen, if there are any Glasgow Steiner School parents reading this, just don't, okay? Because if you do, I am not going to say pretty, hippie things, you know? Actually, I cannae believe there are, but I've been told by my partner, Su, that there are - and poor old Su is worried that I might say something that'll offend their sensibilities. Well, I'm sorry if I do, but there you go. I'm just speaking my mind... and I'm sure Rudolph would approve of that. Self-expression.

Hey, it would be strange if I actually died today. My grandmother died on my brother Jonathan's birthday. It almost felt like she picked that day, you know? Although, I suppose it was just co-incidence. There was a one in thirty chance she'd die on some relative's birthday. So, nothing spooky, nothing "spiritual" there... although I wish there was. I wish I could get back that "spiritual" belief I used to have. It was comforting, you know? It would be especially comforting now. It'd be nice to think that death was a door through to someplace else, rather than mere extinction.

Well, I've taken another pain-killer and a tranquilliser, and now I'm drinking some brandy. Soon I'll take a sleeping pill (kindly donated by my father). Then, hopefully I'll make it through the night, get some decent rest, and who knows, maybe even feel rested and a bit more healed in the morning. Every morning I wake up thinking, oh, maybe I'm better now, but as the day wears on the headache builds, and with it, my hope disintegrates.

Before I knock myself out, I want to write more. I want to tell you about Karen. I met Karen at the Edinburgh Spiritualist Church. She came from a family of spiritualist mediums, so she was into it big-style. Me and Karen used to work with the ouija board, and we'd get all sorts of messages. It was both interesting and powerful. Recently, I read a Derren Brown book, and he claimed that the sitters unconsciously moved the glass. Possible, I guess, except that Karen and I used only one pinkie finger each, and sometimes we'd get messages that were just a load of bollocks. I remember one time, when asking who the "spirit" was, we got the message "I Am Prince". Now, I don't know if he meant the rock star or if he just forgot his second name, but I was left wondering - after reading Derren's nice pat explanation - why me and Karen would conjure that up? It just didn't fit with what Derren said. Also, one time, while I was "training to be a medium" I was doing a reading for a woman and I saw - like out of the corner of my eye - an old woman flit past, and I heard, quite distinctly that her name was Mary and she told me to tell the woman I was sitting for, "tell her about the chickens!" It was such a ridiculous thing, I wasn't going to bother. I thought I'd just make a total dick of myself, but in the end I told her. Turned out Mary was the woman's aunt and that when the woman was a child she got upset by her aunt killing chickens in the front yard. Co-incidence, maybe? Cold-reading? Well, certainly not that. I suppose if the aunt had been called Cassandra or Philomena, the experience would have seemed more credible?

I think of these things, to remind myself that there are definitely things that I can't quite explain. Not that that means there's a God, that we've got souls or that there is intelligence to the universe, just that we have the ability to tap into something that is unknowable merely by the five senses.

Well, I'm going to wrap it up now. I've ranted enough. I guess I just want to say, happy birthday Jonathan. I know you're probably not reading this, but happy birthday anyway, bro. If you're still drinking in that psychic current, maybe you'll be feeling me thinking about you right now. Don't know what time it is in Canada right now, but it's kicking 10:30pm here. You're probably just returning from your work right now, maybe sitting on a bus somewhere. Or maybe you're in bed, I can never remember which damn way the time difference works. I guess if the sun sets in the West, it must be afternoon over there, yes?

But maybe I'm not quite ready to wrap this up. I suppose what I'd love is for this to elicit some response from someone who could irrefutably prove to me that there is rhyme and reason to all this. Someone who could tell me something that would blow my little cotton socks off. Someone who could enlighten me. Someone who could help me face the prospect of my probably imminent death with a smile on my face...

I remember my brother, Jonathan, saying in all earnestness that he knew I would die when I was 79 years old. How he thought he knew this, I don't know, but the truth be told, I thought he was about as self-deluded as they come. Man, I'd like to last till I'm 79. Better still though, I'd like to last a lot longer; and if I do, I am SO going to enjoy reminding him of what a tit he was on my 80th birthday.

Sorry Joge, but I just don't think you've attained seer-hood, no matter how much you want to believe it... and BTW, if I ever got to the point where I actually could see the future, I would NEVER tell someone when they are going to die. Anyway, dude, deluded as I think you are, I still love you. So, happy birthday.

That said, Rosie - she's my daughter by the way - if I do kick the bucket soon, I still believe you are an angel!

(An afterword: it is the 20th February now, two days after I wrote the above piece, and I've just received an email - out of the blue - from Jonathan. It's over six months since I last heard from him. So, did he feel me thinking about him? Or is it just another coincidence? )