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PREFACE
From
an early age I was loath to accept explanations from people who were no doubt
well meaning, or to carry out their instructions, without satisfying myself that
they were worthy of credence and respect.
Such an attitude did not always endear me to parents and teachers, and
certainly did nothing to ensure my advancement in the Armed Forces.
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it enlivened me. So
what
began as an attempted correlation of thoughts, ideas, conjectures and
convictions that had grown in my mind over the years of a long and fortunate
life, became a fascinating delving into the nooks and crannies of disciplines
and topics which have appeared to me to represent important moves in the game of
life. They
are those in respect of which, with far from adequate mental resources, I have
exercised an abiding curiosity.
My dissertation on these matters does not, of course, purport to be
anything more than superficial, but has been inscribed in the hope that it may
possibly excite in readers confrontation, controversy, and above all enquiry. This
then is the result of my journey of exploration, during which I have shamelessly
plundered the works of experts in their fields and, whilst commenting on aspects
of various specialities, freely admit to being a Master of None.
At one time I thought matters of worldly, monumental importance might be
addressed by Jacks-of-all-Trades who could
communicate one with another sufficiently to introduce and ponder possible
solutions to presented problems, whilst
being in a position to call upon expert advice from the specialists.
Something like a wartime cabinet formed of the best people available
without selection having to pander to Party preferences.
But then I realized that even with such an ideal gathering it would, of
course, be impossible to achieve consensual decisions, because the very
individual uniquity of humans is the breeding ground for pure bloody-mindedness.
My own strain of that pestilence caused me to buck the system, and to
query the brand of utopia that was supposed to have been served us on the
platter of modern technology.
In my early life I had known there were evils abroad but, as with
Bertrand Russell, felt “there was reason to think they would grow less”.
But then, again with Russell, “the course of events has made me
gradually less and less able to acquiesce patiently in what is happening”, and
in attempting to address the issue I have reached a point of no return – an
empty infinity. Nevertheless,
the lifelong exercise in inquisitiveness has been incredibly rewarding in
providing me with an abiding interest – indeed, a raison d’etre – without
which the passage ahead would have been well nigh impossible to navigate.
And the summer I encountered along the way may not now sing in me as
before, but it certainly sang for more than a little while. I
would like to express my debt and gratitude to the friends who have helped me -
with encouragement and in other ways – in the production of the Guide.
In particular I would thank:
Mrs. Valerie Johnstone, Mrs. Jan Sinclair, Professor David Myers.
I hasten to add that the inclusion of a name in the list does not imply
that the person concerned necessarily agrees with my views as expressed in this
book. The
Guide proceeds from the briefly autobiographical to an examination of the
world’s parlous problems, and speculation as to whether they can be resolved
by way of “mindpower”, and perhaps a tinkering with Man’s genetic
machinery. As
indicated by the title, it is intended for the layman and therefore, whilst
authors have been acknowledged, sources have, for the greater part, not been
quoted in the text.
But having, in the process of its construction, cobbled together
borrowings from the exposed thoughts of others whose knowledge far exceeds my
own, it would be wrong to present it without recognizing their valuable
assistance. Accordingly,
at the rear are listed some of the works which have provided me with
information, admiration, and provocation.
To the extent that I have taken them on board, they comprise a
significant part of the cargo I have carried through life.
Occasionally some have become jetsam, but never flotsam, for the ship may
have struck a few rocks but has never foundered. 1
(Part Sample)
PREPARATORY
“Years mature into fruit So that some small seeds of moments May outlive them” Rabindranath
Tagore(1861-1941) I
think it started with Father Christmas aka Saint Nicholas aka Santa Claus.
After all, he was bigger and jollier than the Easter Bunny and, treated
the right way, he was more generous.
Although, I must admit that the Bunny, besides hiding small, chocolate
eggs, did sow some seeds of doubt.
The Tooth Fairy really didn’t ever loom large in the scheme of things.
Never visible – even in picture books - and quite unreliable, it was good only
for the occasional threepence, often failing to find discarded teeth that should
have been easy to locate under any pillow.
The Bunny, of course, was also never seen whilst planting eggs in
vulnerable hiding places, but its figure was often available in picture books,
and indeed was sometimes pointed out, appearing in newspaper advertisements.
The Tooth Fairy never was.
Father Christmas, on the other hand was – for an
appreciable period before the end of the year – not only visible in books and
newspapers, but also available, audible, and approachable by way of his numerous
clones. There he was in the
streets, clanging bells, and in stores where he offered his capacious scarlet
lap to wee toddlers. Yes, it was
Father Christmas who excited the imagination, seductive in red garb and white
beard. Particularly in large department stores where one was taken
as a special treat just before Christmas. Of course, he could be, despite his
Ho, Ho, Ho camaraderie, a trifle intimidating.
But on the whole, provided you had appeared to act in a reasonably
civilised manner throughout the year – or at least in the short period before
Christmas – the Grand Old Man could be relied upon to fill the sock hung up on
the lounge room mantelpiece on Christmas Eve.
And whilst the sight of an occasional accusatory potato may have reminded
you of a misdemeanour you thought had gone unnoticed, the pang of guilt – or
resentment – experienced was quickly forgotten in the sheer joy of finding the
wonderful gifts in stocking and pillow case, with which dear Father Christmas
recognized one’s essential goodness. There was too, the thrilling anticipation, the hope of
one’s dreams coming true, which increased in strength almost to certitude of
fulfilment in the days leading up to Christmas Eve.
Then, on the fateful night, with what wide-eyed wonder you were led by
the hand – dressed in pyjamas - into the lounge room, to help with the
ceremonial stocking-hanging. What
surpassing joy to watch father put out the friendly glass of beer and biscuits
for an old gentleman who would have travelled so far on his sledge, drawn by
indefatigable reindeer. Not
forgetting, of course, to leave the letter which mother had helped one write,
setting out the list of boons craved of him.
Ah, this was indeed such excitement as seriously to endanger the whole
enterprise, because when tucked up in bed, one was told that unless one went
“straight to sleep”, Father Christmas would not come.
And, although he might not always bring everything one desired, Father
Christmas never, ever, let you down. Not like God. You
were taught to kneel by your bed every night, hands raised and clasped in
supplication, to pray to a mysterious Unknown, requesting Him (never any thought
in those days of Him being Her, or Hermaphroditic) in the form of His Son (never
questioning the ambiguity of identity), to look down upon you (He being Up
There), to pity your ingenuousness (at that age unavoidable), and to let you go
(up) to Him. An even more puzzling
version required that your soul (whatever that was) be taken by The Lord
(another name for The Son) if, by some mischance, you didn’t wake up in the
morning. This potential prospect
was a little disturbing as one grew older – particularly when there was a
violent storm crashing overhead – but in the very early days it did not cause
any apprehension at all, being quite incomprehensible. As for praying, I was circumspect in my requests.
I had not heard, and certainly would not have understood the words, so
certainly had no occasion – then or ever – to emulate St. Augustine who
prayed cautiously for “chastity and continency – but not yet”! Undoubtedly one had to take the idea of God seriously,
because it was presented seriously by mother and father.
It surely had to be at least as important as each one of their
pronouncements, such as “hold mother’s hand when crossing roads”, and
“don’t ever go near the fire”. God
wasn’t, of course, quite in the same category, for if those edicts were
disobeyed, as occasionally they were, it resulted in punishment, which generally
had the desired effect. But no such
consequence followed any disobedience with regard to God.
Except if, when you didn’t get something you wanted, you reasoned you
must have done something to displease Him.
And there simply wasn’t any sure way to disobey Him without knowing
what His rules were - apart from those that were described as such by mother and
father. Somewhat disturbingly, He
was everywhere, and although attempts to find Him were doomed to failure every
time, He continued to be there, like an invisible member of the family – as
indeed He was sometimes described. Yes,
God and Jesus were accepted. Pictures
of Jesus as a tall man were much more accessible than those of God.
He was usually surrounded, not by clouds, but by small sheep, or pretty
little deer, all gazing rapturously up at Him.
Never crocodiles or cane toads of course, but then in those days they
didn’t feature amongst God’s creatures.
However, little children were often prominent.
Always, without exception, they and Jesus were wearing long nightshirts,
and wherever they were they went barefoot, which we did only on the beach or in
bed. They were obviously
foreigners, but not like the Chinaman who came around each week with a horse and
cart, and from whom mother bought fruit and vegetables.
Then again, quite often pictures were displayed of a small baby being
cuddled by a lady in a white night gown, backed by another one with big wings,
and surrounded by cows. We were
told in a song that these were “lowing”; we had no idea what that was, but
whatever it was it frightened the baby who woke up. The baby was Jesus.
As a rule the scene was interesting, because they were obviously in a
garden shed like the one near our back fence.
But we didn’t have animals there, and no way a lady with big wings.
Mother certainly wouldn’t be seen there in her nightgown. On the whole, Jesus was preferable to God in the very early
days. However, when later I was
told that He was not only the Son of God – which I could understand, and in
the light of my own position even feel some sympathy for Him – but also was God, well…perplexity reigned.
The Holy Ghost got no mention at this time, presumably because father and
mother did not want to confuse the issue any further, or most probably because
they themselves were not too clear on it anyway.
They certainly wouldn’t have been familiar with the question of the
Ghost’s position, let alone have been able to debate the matter.
So, like so many early heretics, we didn’t have any Trinity in the
house. I got that later at school where, every morning, we in the
preparatory school lifted our voices in praise of Him “from whom all blessings
flow”. Lustily we sang “Praise
Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host; Praise
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost”. And
on other occasions we certainly did, “early in the morning”, raise a song to
Him, singing out “Holy, Holy, Holy, merciful and mighty, God in Three Persons,
blessed Trinity”. Not having a
clue about the threesome, but there was no escaping it.
However, no fuss was ever made of the Trinity; indeed, I doubt that any
of the masters would have known any more about the Filioque controversy than my
parents. And I am sure they were
all just as well off being none the wiser.
I was to learn later that the doctrine of the Trinity, although in some
respects not unknown to the worship of pagan gods, was not a great talking point
in Jesus’ time, and that in fact it did not feature in final form until the
end of the 2nd century; since when it has provided endless cerebral
exercise for the cognoscenti – and been regarded as a blasphemous abomination
by Jews and Muslims. The third
“Holy Spirit” partner – the Paraclete, or “Comforter” – does not, in
fact, get a mention in the Old Testament, but with the complete change in the
New Testament from the old, ferocious Yaweh to the God of Love, he, she, it,
comes into prominence as apparently the means by which we may acquire revelation
and inspiration. No, apart from
being aware that there was a school called “Trinity”, we didn’t know too
much about the doctrine, and were certainly not unduly troubled by it.
But the stories told of “Gentle Jesus” were interesting and, because
verified by mother, unquestionably true. His
father, God, was a somewhat different kettle of fish.
He came through as Powerful (you had to be good - or else…),
All-Knowing (be careful of your thoughts as well as your actions), All-Seeing
(whilst you couldn’t find Him, He certainly knew where you were every minute
of the day), and Unpredictable (at once Loving and Fierce).
As well, of course, He was invisible, and to this extent a little like
the Tooth Fairy, but that’s as far as it went.
He didn’t leave threepences under the pillow – that wasn’t His job.
He wasn’t concerned – at least actively – with small things like
that, although, seeing everything, He knew about them – even viewing the fall
of every single sparrow. (By the
way, where did they go when they fell? One never saw them fall – they always seemed to be flying,
or hopping around, picking up crumbs. One
did, however, see and hear the pennies dropping, and you knew where they went
– straight to Jesus. Maybe
that’s where the sparrows ended up too.)
No, God was into bigger things. He
had made the World, which meant, in those days, home, the street outside, and
presumably Myers Department Store where Father Christmas had his office every
year. Come to think of it, on the
rare occasions when one saw a picture of God – up in the sky, surrounded by
clouds and angels – He always wore a white beard, and so bore some resemblance
to Father Christmas - which probably improved His image.
But there any similarity ceased. No
bell-ringing, no jovial Ho Ho Ho, no lovely red hat with a tassel on the end,
and certainly no friendly lap to sit on whilst you whispered your innermost
secret desires for simple things like trains, cars and bikes.
As for fulfilling those desires, you stood a fair chance of hitting the
jackpot with perhaps one request made of Father Christmas, but with God it
didn’t matter how earnest were your promises to be good, and your entreaties
for a return gesture in the form of material toys.
As your raised arms tired, and your knees became sore on the hard, wooden
floor, you had that feeling that God would not come across with the goods as
Father Christmas did. Nevertheless,
one persisted with one’s prayers. Those
who puzzled me most in those days were Father Christmas, Jesus, God, and the
King. I often wondered if they,
like me, cleaned their teeth, went to bed, got up, and went to the toilet.
I just could not imagine any of them
sitting on the toilet. Fortunately, I was not alone with my infant thoughts
regarding these notables. I had at
that time two good friends, to whom I spoke on a day-to-day basis, and who
appeared to share my puzzlement. They
resided in the two long mirrors in my mother’s wardrobe, “Gigson” in the
left mirror, and his companion, “Monson”, in the right.
I would usually talk to Gigson first, and then shift to the right to have
a word with Monson. They didn’t
say much – in fact they said nothing. But
what wonderful listeners! It was at
that stage that I was introduced to the notion that silence is indeed golden,
for they listened attentively and uncritically to everything I had to say.
If they felt as good as I did at the end of each unilateral conversation,
then they must have retired happy. When
my mother discovered I had these friends, she did nothing to prevent the
meetings, except on the occasions when she closed her bedroom door to me.
I would hear her occasionally telling my Aunts of my friends, and their
laughter served only to reassure me in my relationship with the mirror men.
I later suffered some qualms about that early relationship, but later
again was relieved to find psychologists such as J.L. Singer saying that
imagination play does help children define their identity, and its absence can
be a matter for concern! It
wasn’t long before I established an identity, for at the age of five years, I
started at school and was given a number. I
answered to this for years until I assumed a new identity in the Army with
another number, and yet a further identity in the Air Force with yet another
number. Now I’m associated with a
quite a few Pin Numbers. Gigson and Monson disappeared forever behind their respective
looking glasses about the time when, dressed in new shoes, socks, short pants,
and shirt, with a brand new bag on my back, I was left to the tender mercies of
a “Miss” – and the not-so-tender mercies of a horde of other boys, some
one’s own age and size, and others enormous.
But this proved to be another wonderful world, and if God had made this
one too, then He was worth cultivating, even if He wasn’t up to Father
Christmas’ standard. Surprisingly,
one discovered that the Easter Bunny visited School, depositing small chocolate
eggs there as well. But alas, only
for the first year. By the second
year it had been revealed that the eggs had been secreted, not by the Bunny, but
by human hands. This was a bit of a
blow, and initially it was one to ponder. It
was not so much the loss of a thoughtful provider of chocolate – although this
was bad enough – but the discovery that the assurances of many - including
mother and father of all people - as to the existence of this lovable creature,
had been untrue. Particularly, as
it had been constantly dinned into one that one must always speak the Truth –
otherwise God, as well as mother and father, would be mightily displeased, and
retribution would follow. And,
having been told the story of Noah and the Great Flood, one had a fair idea of
what could happen when God was displeased.
However, recovery was speedy, as there were so many other new, delightful
distractions to engage one’s attention. Click on the cart below to purchase this book:
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