The Difference Between Atheism and Agnosticism

1.

The more and more people we lose

the more I am drawn to one word;

Three letters, now surely suffused

with a light and a magic conferred

From a place where our deep love accrues

in parts of our hearts, which aver

A truthful and delicate blues,

and a suffix I once found absurd.

2.

When I formerly considered heaven

I was dogmatic in my position:

There’s no evidence for such a place

beyond pain, full of wonder and grace.

Though I’ve still got no time for religion

I have started to see my omission:

As I struggle to make sense of death

now I hope: There’s no evidence -

- yet.

The Universe Experience

I’m fond of the slightly nihilistic view that no matter how much we think we’re stressed, under pressure, unsuccessful, or the polar opposite of all those things, on a cosmic timeline all these things are not even a blink of an eye. That they’re so tiny and transient that a 14 billion year old universe may as well not register them.

That, if we – as individuals or even as Homo Sapiens – really are the universe’s way of experiencing itself, our teensy tiny lifetimes are so insignificant as to make them virtually pointless.

Space is big, as Douglas Adams rightly and famously said. However, its bigness is not just physical; it’s also temporal. Time: there’s been a lot of it, mostly way before we invented ways to mark its passing, and there will be unfathomable aeons way after any human endeavour has fizzled out.

So everything is more or less worthless, or at least not worth the inordinate amount of meaning with which we imbue it.

And that’s true – but it’s not the whole truth, either.

Those things we do, the people we are, the things we make out of love, the way we treat each other, the feelings we feel – those are only dependent on time because we have to live somewhere. Where we live we experience it linearly and forwards. Crucially, too, we can remember those moments. Bring back the feelings. Bring back the love, at least as a memory of itself. When we connect with each other we share those moments – and a good kiss is truly timeless.

All this plays out everywhere, every moment, every day. 

So, yes, on the timescale of eternity one second in one or two people’s lifetimes is immesurably small. A dribble of piss in an ocean. But time is not that ocean; time is the dribble. Time is only worthwhile if you can banish it for an instant of all-encompassing natural connection. 

Wherever and whenever those moments occur in this cosmos, they happen. They will always have happened and always been ready to happen. What else is there that can turn time away from a moment of being? A moment in which there is nothing else but that feeling of disembodiment, of endlessness?

That is understanding beyond that of which humans are supposedly capable. That understanding informs the Universe about itself in ways that transcend temporality entirely. Those moments are the most important of all, and the fact they are so brief and tiny amidst the chaos of existence even on a human level makes them hugely significant.

The Earth is born, and one day will die too. Once we crawled here, and even if all traces of human existence are wiped out eventually, the Universe will itself remember what it was like to know that power is in unity. That fullness comes often from others. And that what happened here matters.

If it ever mattered, it will always matter; it is simply down to how it’s measured. And measurement depends on where you choose to stand. You have to be there to analyse this ultimate resistor-of-analysis. The paradox is beautiful, but without humanity here to live it then the Universe can never truly say it knows itself. 

And never is a long time, by anyone’s standards.

un-anticulturalism

Last year I did a book called Anticulturalist Manifesto. I am proud of it and think it looks badass with the white text on black pages.

So the thing is that it’s quite nihilstic, or rather deliberately self-contradictory and aggressively self-centered. All about identity and essentially Killing Your Reader cause your intent is in fact all that matters. 

I even put a challenge in there for anyone who wanted to, to remix and republish it how they desired - because the idea of things belonging to any one person or even one book is obsolete.

It just occurred to me that the whole project came out with no context at all (and this was deliberate) so it is as it appears and my name’s on it.

It's an observation piece not a personal manifesto, tho, like a critique of where we are right now with Trumpism, the Manosphere, late capitalism and whatnot. 

I never LIKED the ideas of it though. I hate the world of Alternative Facts and Fake News. I cannot abide self-centered wankers and particularly those at the very top of politics. They are fully paid up members I would say of this Anticulturalist way of thinking, because the only truth that matters (according to them) is their own. Nobody else’s counts.

That’s not what I believe or how I live my life and I wonder if anyone read it and thought: eeh he’s a bit of a cunt int he. What a prick.

I mean not MANY have read it so I guess it’s all moot.

It's Ultimately On Us

Conniving and corrosive

Irreligious and explosive

Phasing through dimensions

With malevolent intentions

Despicable of motive

Delinquently devoted

I spread misinformation

Fomenting insurrection

But still they don’t step up

No still they don’t stand up

to say:

This Is Enough.

Self-centred and devisive

Suspicious and derisive

I’ve got no inclination

To give any explanation

Pernicious hate mitosis

Is delivered by osmosis

A vile palpitation

Passing through your ruined nation

But still they don’t strike out

No still they don’t fight back

or say:

We’ve Had Enough

Some Things I Want From A Career

I suppose I oughta put it like this:

I want to be asked on Desert Island Discs:

I could easily talk about all of my picks.

I want to do that Guardian Q&A

At the front of the mag on a Saturday,

But nobody cares what I’ve got to say.

I want to turn down an OBE.

Fuck off, I’d say, with your imperial decree.

But these things never happen to me.

I’m just not on the radar for that kind of fun.

All the books and the writing that I’ve ever done

Just never provoke invitations to come.

Unofficial biographies, quizzes and games

Are mass-market in nature, resistant to fame

Though they sell well (sometimes), they don’t uplift my name

And the DIY self-published poetry books

Look amazing, feel great, and the contents are good

But no-one else thinks so – no reason they should.

I’m the first to consider the punk spirit alive:

Just do it. It’s all down to belief and to drive.

And that’s true, but it’s late now and I’m getting tired.

Success is all relative; how else could it be

When there’s multitudes struggling hideously

Through the spam and the slop? I’m in fine company.

Let Them Eat Ice

Greed has gravity of its own.

Bashing down without a care

as long as the money comes home.

A millionaire? A billionaire?

A trillionaire? The next step’s where

the money supply is blown.

Quadrillionaire? Quintillionaire?

Is there anything left to be owned?

But that’s not important.

Naysayers are morons.

They don’t got an argument.

Look at your bank statement:

You caught them all. Their protest’s irrelevant.

You can sue yourself when you’re the president

and offer yourself an enormous settlement.

No wisdom at court. No jesters’ intelligence.

Yes greed has gravity; money falls in;

tributes from terrified companies, scared

of what you might label an overnight sin.

And you know more than anyone else about them.

You make atheists pray

for a swift judgement day

and the piddling cost

is that everything's lost.

Who will buy this beautiful morning?

Such a day for a burial plot.

Another boy crushed and forsaken whilst clawing

at a box made of maple and not yet paid off.

Doctor: Heal Thyself

I sat to the side of the Doctor’s desk. His professional half-smile encouraged me to try and explain what was going on.

I couldn’t look at him properly and I slumped forward a little, eyes studying the NHS-cleaned, ancient floor tiles. It took all the effort I had to delve as deep into the cavern as I could. Eventually, by screwing my face up, I found a tiny voice from miles away. Dislocated and weird, I managed to say:

“It seems silly to say so… but I’m just not doing well.”

I heard the swish of his chinos against his leather seat.

“It’s not silly,” he said. “In what way?”

“I guess I’m just not enjoying anything. It all seems so… empty.”

A bird chirped somewhere in the background and was quickly drowned out by an articulated lorry’s hefty roar of urgent capitalism. I dared a glance up. The doctor was sitting, body language open, professionally-distant but human empathy-close to me.

I sighed. This was hopeless. I’ve come here and wasted this man’s time. For what? Feeling a bit down? What kind of loser even does that? People with real illnesses find it hard enough to get an apppointment here. What the hell made me think I was so special? So important that my boredom or whatever was more important than the kid in the waiting room bravely holding back tears, with a gnarly-looking gash on his arm, and his mum in bits trying to stay stolid for her special guy?

No, this was a mistake. I began mentally-rehearsing the stages needed for me to stand up and walk out.

The Doctor suddenly grinned and pointed to an area just above his head. We both looked up; there was nothing there but an idea.

“Sometimes,” he began leisurely, then sped up as he warmed to the topic, “Sometimes when I’m down in the dumps I check the entertainment listings.”

His fingers danced on the keyboard and, triumphantly, he turned the screen to me: “And look,” (I did), “Circus Italiana is in town – and the great clown Pagiluci is star attraction.”

My heart sank:

“But doctor,” I eventually replied, not wanting to take away the childlike glee in the pools of blue behind his bicycle-wheel glasses. “He’s a fucking cunt.”