One of the things I’ve noticed over the years is the way that my own experience seems so much less significant than it once was. I suppose that we all feel that way as we age. When we are young we believe so fervently in the rightness of our experience, the utter truth in it. Which is why young people tend to be the most driven in their beliefs, even at the cost of a mouthful of pepper spray.

It’s not that us old bastards are worn out, passive, or merely complacent, its just that we have been proven wrong so many times that we doubt ourselves much more. We know our fallibility much more than when we were young and untested.

And not only does fallibility enter the equation, but simple scepticism of what our minds tell us. When I was younger, my emotions were so strong and all encompassing they would not, could not, be ignored; their veracity could not be doubted

But after this many miles on the tires, not only have the emotions themselves subsided, I recognise them for what they really are  – constructs of a biological mind based on genetics and personal history. They are part of how I interpret the universe, but I’ve come to see them as having quite limited utility.

It’s been a while since I’ve done any of my Buddhist practice, but the effects are still with me, and that includes deep scepticism of my experience. That training was a perfect storm for me; so many pieces came together and reality suddenly made a lot more sense: psychology, biology, and Secular Buddhism all appeared to agree, and the self that was once so precious was shown to be a great fraud.

I’ve said it before and I’ll repeat it now: it is so liberating when you can let go of self. What once was the end-all and be-all of life becomes suddenly irrelevant and so much that creates anxiety is dismissed. When there is nothing here, there is nothing to be afraid of.

That doesn’t mean that I’ve got it figured out, however. Life is still a mystery.  Having dispensed with self doesn’t mean that there is nothing, but that whatever else there is I cannot know it through this simple, biological mind. Buddhism denies the presence of soul, and I see no evidence of one, but who knows? The original Buddhist theology said nothing about God, but again, who knows?

When one is no longer devoted to one’s experience, when one no longer believes in a supreme or essential self, the mystery becomes deeper, far deeper than we ever thought. Everything in my life has lead me to the place of not knowing, and having little faith in ever knowing, which is the supreme paradox. Still, dispensing with the common spiritual and metaphysical beliefs is not the same as a nihilistic abandonment of everything, which is actually an incredible arrogant and certain epistemology.  I’m still a firm believer in the creed, “The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence”

I do look for evidence, however. In my day-to-day living I try to find the little gems scattered about that might possibly give evidence for something unseen. They are rare and subtle but I do think clues exist. Of course we can only interpret according the mind and feeling, both of which are grossly imperfect and suspect, but it’s all we have.

One little piece arrived without warning while I was in a discussion with a friend a few weeks ago. We were talking about meaning, and how to define a meaningful life. It occurred to me that the answer lay in imagining yourself on your deathbed and contemplating your life. Shadows are gathering and consciousness is about to leave you, and amid all the conflicting emotions and thoughts that must occur in such a place, how would one answer the question, “Did I live my life properly?”

It’s a very complex question, but we all get the gist of what it means: I came, I saw, and I’m now finished, and was it all worthwhile, not just for me but also for the world?

This is an intuitive thing, not a rational one. You don’t want to put yourself in this place and try and figure out what the world wants from you, what would make others proud, how to achieve the most, and so forth. It’s about knowing in your deepest heart that it was worth it all and that you did the very best you could.

The trick is knowing, the best of what? For my friend he realised it was about service. To die with peace he would need to know he did his best to help others. A very stunning realisation, because not much of his life to this point has been in that direction. This shows that the big questions can be inconvenient, though you ignore the answers at your peril.

For myself, what emerged was the absurdly simple notion of living life fully. I’m not sure where this comes from or what it signifies, but it means taking the very most of life’s experiences, as many experiences as possible, and throwing myself into them.  A very simple solution to a problem that has confounded me my entire life.

This is another piece of letting go. Rather than fretting about money or status or life’s myriad, banal worries, my biggest concern – should be my only real concern – is to grab life and shake the stuffing out of it.  The opposite of passivity.  And I understand that it’s not for me, for my own selfish benefit, but to have the experiences flow through me, in the way that artists often talk about having creativity flow through them and do the art using their hands.

What could possibly want to experience life through me is yet another mystery. But it’s a relief to at last understand why my life has been filled with so much conflict: our society has a plan and a path devised for us, and yet I’ve always instinctively balked. The stable, predictable career path is not why I am here, and no matter how hard I try it can never be.

So in this great big sea of uncertainty and unknown, there is one guiding light, one beacon to steer my ship. Perhaps that’s the very best we can ever hope for in this life.

Assume you will be dead in ten minutes. Looking back, did you live the life you were supposed to? Do you know what that is?

Download the free audiobook of my most recent novel  A Dark and Promised Land here

And now for something completely different, a short story I whipped up. Not exactly seasonal, but if Tim Burton can do Nightmare Before Christmas…

Dancing with the Dead

A God-awful siren ripped through the stillness of the House.

“Which is it?” Frederick asked.

“Number twelve. I told you. He was bloated like a dead pig this morning. Knew he would go off. You better grab the bucket.”

“I did it last time. Why do I always have to clean up the mess?”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Two weeks, but…”

“There you go. Get to it. I’ll send a message to the Grundherrshaft’s family; it’ll be a relief to get the stinking oaf out of here.” Grumbling, Frederick grabbed the bucket and mop, stepped down from the observation room.

Below, on the floor of the House, the bodies were lined in rows, resting on white marble tables lit by sunlight descending from overhead windows. Great bouquets of pure, white peonies were laid on and around the corpses, a patina of beauty and peace masking the fetor of decomposition. A cat’s-cradle of alarm wires hung from the ceiling, attached to the limbs of the silent residents.

Erik watched Frederick clean the mess left by number twelve, the man’s last dramatic act on earth. In contrast to the floral opulence below, the observation arena was cold and stark, without chairs or a place to sit or be comfortable. Just a bucket to piss in; four grey walls. A large sheet of plate glass overlooked the Leichenhäus, the House of the Dead.

“How was it?”

“Awful. I was almost sick. The stench!”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Trust me, you will. I’ve been here almost two years; I’ve seen it all.”

“Two years! Why on earth would anyone want to work in – in such a place for so long?”

“I don’t have much choice. Owe a lot of money to the owner of the place. Gambling debts. It was either work here – or prison.”

Frederick whistled, looked out over the rows.

“You know, the boss was here this morning. I told him you were away arranging a delivery.”

Erik grinned ruefully. “Thanks. I was up late last night. Too much beer. Munich beer is the best in the world.”

“That’s the third time this week. You’re going to get into trouble.”

“Who’s gonna tell? You? I’d beat you senseless. Them…? They’ve got nothing to say. Look at them, Frederick; have you ever seen anything more pathetic? All lined up among the flowers, happily rotting away.”

“I can understand their fear, Erik, when they were alive. After all, who wants to risk being buried alive? What a horror it must be, to awaken in a coffin.”

“You’re a fool, Frederick; you’ve read too much Poe. This whole thing is ridiculous. Put me in a box and stick me in the ground, I say.”

“People have been buried alive, you know; doctors do make mistakes.”

“Leichenhäuses have been around for a hundred years, and I’ve never heard of anyone waking up. That’s why this is the last one in Europe; people got tired of spending money to watch their loved ones rot. Only fanatics get sent here these days.”

“Maybe so, but that alarm sure scared the hell out of me. Thought maybe we had a live one.”

“You’ll get used to that too, though it’s the fresh ones that make most of the racket: they twitch and jump a lot, triggering the mechanism. We get new arrivals, the alarms go off almost every day.

“So what were you up to last night?” Asked Frederick, as Eric walked into the observation room chased by beer fumes.

“Celebrating my last few days of freedom. I’m getting married soon, you know, so I’m making the best of it; I’ve visited just about every bierstube in Munich.”

“And your fiancée, she agrees with this?”

“Hermione? Not on your life. I told her I would be out of town, visiting a sick aunt.”

“You’re clever, that’s for sure.”

“Not clever enough,” said Erik, shaking his head, his vision swimming. “Verdammt! This is the part you never get used to, Frederick: standing all day watching these dead fools, this congregation of the damned. I would gladly shake the Devil’s hand if he were to release me from here.”

“There must be something we can do to break the monotony of this – this still dance of death.”

“Dance of death? By God…Erik approached the nearest table. The sign at the corpse’s foot declared Ernst Bäcker. He looked down at the emaciated figure, the fine, black suit like a beetle’s carapace, hands the colour of boiled fish crossed in prayer over the chest.

Erik swept the mountain of flowers onto the floor with a hideous crash. To Frederick’s horror, he took the corpse in his arms and began a jerking, macabre waltz across the floor, the alarm wires trailing, like a marionette’s strings, the horrible bell announcing with a cold, brassy clatter.

“Come, Frederick! Dance with us! There are many here. Come dance with the dead!” Frederick stood frozen. After a few minutes of maniacal whirling, Erik tripped and fell, sending more vases flying and knocking another body onto the floor.

“You missed a great dance, my friend,” he said with a hiccup, returning to the observation room. “Though the fellow I had was somewhat a clod; just couldn’t get his feet right.”

“How could you do that? Have you no respect for the dead?!”

“Very little, I’m afraid. I’m a pragmatist you know; once you’re gone, it matters little what happens to the leftovers. Besides, you have to have fun or you go mad. The last fellow that worked here went mad. I even caught him doing indignities to the ladies, if you get what I mean.”

“Mein Gott, that’s – that’s horrible. What did you do?”

“Do? I didn’t do anything. Had nothing to do with me, although I agree with you that it was quite disgusting. Can you imagine? Anyway, he threw himself into the Rhine.”

***

“Please Eric, we must go.“

“Pah, what is this “must? I will tell you what must be, Hermione. And tonight I will stay home.”

“But my love, we rarely entertain and this is important. We should make an entrance, if only for appearances.”

“The back of my hand to appearances.”

Hermione bit her lower lip. “The Count and his wife will surely be there and they have great interest in the city. I’m sure he could find you a position.”

“What kind of position?”

“I do not know, but he has great influence, and my father knows him well. Anything would be better than that wretched Leichenhäus. You cannot stay there, Eric.”

“I don’t know…” Eric said with a frown.

“Please? And it has been so long since we had some fun. It would be so terribly gay to dance. I cannot remember last we attended a ball, you know. I do love a grand dance…”

“Oh, ho, so that’s your game is it? You go on about prospects but it is really the debauchery that is on your mind? Strumpet! I should bend you over my knee!”

“Oh, do not go on so, it is terribly wearying. If you refuse to escort me, I will find another who will! We are not yet married after all…”

“Absolutely not! I forbid it.  Ah, Your father comes; I will have word with him and he will lock you in your room for the night. And once we are married, we will hear no more of cotillions!”

***

“So there you are. I thought you had left already.”

“I was speaking with the supervisor. Schwein! I hate that man.”

“There was somebody here, looking for you. Name of Schmidt.”

“Schmidt? My darling Hermione?”

“A man. Said it was very important you contact him, as soon as you return.”

“Damn. I wonder what he wanted.”

“Here, he left his card.”

“Aha, it is Hermione’s Uncle.”

“If you leave now, you might catch him.”

“I best not, the old man is on a rampage this morning.” Erik paced the floor of the Leichenhäus, the younger man fluttering behind him like a fledgling sparrow chasing after its mother. “Say, what’s all that? Did we get a new one?”

“Yes, a few moments ago. A buggy accident, the undertaker said. I will set him up with the freshest flowers.”

“Not that it’ll do him any good. He’ll be as foul as the rest of them, soon enough. And we get to watch, poor us.”

“What about him? Have you no pity?”

“Pity for the dead? Don’t be a fool. The dead are beyond suffering, and for that we must envy, not pity them. Look around, what pain do you see? These wretches are beyond any concern. This is an abattoir, laid with mute slabs of beef, waiting impatiently for the earth.”

“That sounds so cold.”

“Not to worry, Lucifer’s whips are keeping them warm enough. So, who is this imbecile; perhaps he too would care to dance?” He snatched away the sheet and seeing a woman’s face, he let out a great cry, falling to his knees. Frederick rushed to him.

Hermione Schmidt lay on the table, resting in a bed of pure, white peonies.

Download the free audiobook of my most recent novel here

It’s finally done. After several weeks of reading my manuscript, the whole shebang is now read, edited and compiled as a single Mp3 file. It wasn’t easy as I was using apple’s Garage Band program, which I found slow and very clunky, and unable to compile the whole thing (almost 7 hours of audio). I actually had to manually join most chapters into two large files and then export it into another program to join them into one. Lots of time and effort to say the least, and I doubt I’ll ever do another audiobook.

The quality of the narration varies as the time across my recording this spanned a couple of months I think. At times I sound tired, at times you can tell it took 3 cups of coffee to give me the fortitude needed to approach the mike. It was very hard work and I’ve got a great deal of respect for hose who do this professionally.

I hope everyone enjoys it. It really is a good book. You can download it here

Nathaniel

The exciting conclusion of my new novel A Dark and Promised Land is now available here

Podcast of chapter 17 of my new novel A Dark and Promised Land is now available here

It never rains but it pours, or so the saying goes. We were out yesterday looking for a car for my mom, when our own started idling rough. Sure enough, after a little while of that (my mind churning away trying to imagine the source: vacuum leak, idle control module), the check engine light came on, which is a big help as I have a scanner that can lift the error code and tell me what needs repairing. But that satisfaction was short lived as yet another warning light came on, this time indicating that the rear brakes need servicing. That means new rotors and pads and I’ll be lucky to walk away with less than $200.00 in parts. And that doesn’t include the noisy alternator bearing I was going to have to address soon.

This while my motorcycle still needs attending to; I have a large number of parts on the way: condensers, carb, piston pin, and clutch push rod seal (it’s fairly spouting oil from that part), and I need to return a clutch cable that was made up for me on Thursday and which turned out to be the incorrect length.  There’s a grim satisfaction in that, because when I balked at what I considered an exorbitant price for the cable repair, the fellow behind the counter claimed theirs was a “premium” service, accounting for the high cost. Taking it back because it was done wrong might allow a little more flexible pricing in the future.

I also have an engine half out on a Westy in my shop, and I have a number of articles that need writing, and when you are trying to promote yourself as a writer, you cannot afford to let things get stale

It’s the latter chore I find somewhat troubling.  I’ve long ago learned that anything to do with ego is bound to lead to dissatisfaction and unhappiness, and I’ve attempted to let go of “intent” and let the world unfold around me.  But then there’s writing and without a doubt any kind of artistry tends to float on an ocean of ego, at least how we imagine art in the West. Art is seen as one of the higher expression of the human heart, of the individual, which is why so many creative types are so easily crushed by criticism. To them, they are the art.

My writing remains my last real toehold in ego. Really, my last real engagement in the world, my justification to myself for taking up space. I like to imagine I have something important to say and that my writing might be my one significant contribution to the world.

What nonsense. Deep down, I know it is just one more hanging onto things, attempting to give value and meaning to my life by what I do, an effort doomed to fail sooner or later. I know I need to do what I need to do because, well, I need to do it, and a desire that someone sees or approves or wants to send me money for it is a bastardization of that essential impulse. To create is to be human, but it’s only in this consumer culture that that essential drive has been so commoditised.

There are so many things I can do with social media to become more well known and sell more books. But pursuit of recognition is what so many of us writers and bloggers do, and it becomes this giant virtual rat race. I don’t want to compete with my fellows, I don’t want to stick my head up above someone else.

This touches me deeply not only because it takes so much investment in time, but because it flies in the face of another recent revelation I’ve been confronted with.

I’ve been on this planet for more than half a century, and throughout my adult life I’ve tried to fit in, especially career and job wise. And yet time after time it all ends up the same way: I hate my job and make a balls out of it. I’ve had many careers, each one trying a different milieu, hoping to find a place where I can apply my skills and talents towards a career and making decent money. The latest incarnation was opening a shop where I restore VW Westphalias.  A strange gig for someone with ten years of university education, but I enjoyed working on these vans.

Like each time before when I went to set myself up in the world, I succeeded. I have always achieved whatever I set myself to do, and when it comes to work I’ve always hated what I created. Whenever I find myself in a situation where my life is dictated by external circumstances I start to die inside.

Being from a blue-collar background, where the measure of a man is in his work and his paycheque, I’ve fought against this from the beginning, and after this years Westy debacle, I finally found the courage to give up. If it was a choice I would have found myself a good economic situation a long time ago. But it’s not. This is a core part of who I am and it’s not amenable to will. I do and will make money here and there but I simply cannot be employed in the manner of most others, an aspect of myself that’s proven so very difficult to come to terms with.

Letting go of striving for a career is letting go of a huge part of my engagement in the world. This challenging year has been a final attempt, one more try to join the mainstream, and it ended as I would expect, and so I have no choice but to lay that down and forget the meanings and beliefs I’ve held about it. I’m aware of the irony that probably most people would love to not “work”, and yet it’s something I’ve always fought against.

In a way writing is my last attempt to justify my existence by doing or creating something. It is a hobble, a noose that keeps me fettered to that archaic belief. Once we divorce ourselves from what we do, what is left? I wonder how many can answer that question? If I turn away from writing as a formal career and stop trying to be a success at, it what will that mean?

Podcasts of my new novel A Dark and Promised Land is now available here