near death experience 1

this actually happened...

I'm contemplating a 1 hour bike ride to work at 4 o'clock in the morning after recently losing my licence. Some Hectic Chick, who shall remain nameless, txts me to get my ass to some club so I can unleash my unco white boy dance moves on an unsuspecting world. I'm always down for brightening the dark days of my contemporaries through my selfless dedication to my personal misfortune/misdeeds. But then there's that bike ride. She sweetens the deal, a lift to work in the morning, which can mean only one thing... She owns a car ;). It's on. I should have known better. Not on a school night Loren!

I rock up to Cavil Ave in Surfers (I'm thinking I should skip the foreplay and go straight to the climax, but the introduction of certain characters is essential to the story). We are literally surrounded by a killer bee colony swarm of 18 year old zombies (It's schoolies week in Surfers which means the place is crawling with reminders of my advanced years, high school graduates everywhere argh). I value my brains so I begin drinking and Hectic Chick's Hyper Flatmate suggests we leave.

We arrive in the slightly more mature part of town: Broadbeach (the usually 21 and over crowd). Wow, everyones dressed up all classy-like, micro-minis and stilettos as far as the eye can see. Guys got their collars popped and their fake alligator skin shoes shined. I'm wearing chucks and my old school player (nintendo) T, maybe I should go back to Surfers.

Hyper Flatmate chick jumps out the taxi and waves down 2 dudes! 1,2, wait that makes 5 of us, good one Hyper Flatmate chick! Turns out it's just as well that she did. The new boys have a particular skill set that comes in handy later...

next: "just so happens your friend here is only mostly dead" TBC

on the way home (again)

I was listening to Bill Bryson today, while preparing to move out of my flat. It was A Short History of Nearly Everything, specifically. I'm looking for a place that I'll call home #6 in about a year and a half of being on the Gold Coast. This almost nomadic-like house hopping is made possible, because, In The Beginning, there was a Big Bang (at least that's generally the consensus on the best way to start the story). Sometimes I genuinely feel the need "to be still and know" that there's something much bigger than myself out there. Some people call it God, I call it the universe. Thanks Bill.

An unfathomable amount of unlikely events have transpired since time has been steadily unfolding at one second per second. One of the unlikely, almost miraculous, results of this combinatorial explosion of possibilities is my existence. Well, pretty much the existence of everything is nigh on miraculous. It all conjures up that age old question: why is there something instead of nothing? Scientists, usually the most ardent supporters of Occham's razor, have a strange and somewhat unexpected answer (if you can call it that). There are infinitely many universes of which ours just happens to be one, and a rare one at that. In our particular permutation, all the elements in play found a delicate balance, such that life was able to emerge. Do not multiply entities unnecessarily, except in the case of universes, I suppose. But back to me ;) Of all the universes in all of the multiverse, of all the atoms in existence, of all the people who ever had sex at one point or another, somehow I won the consciousness lottery (along with 6 billion others and their ancestors). It's amazing. Ahh *pause* and here I am ... Alive.

The reason why this comes as a mildly exultant epiphany at this particular time is because I am concerned that if this truly is the only chance I get -- no doubt my atoms will take on some other form, only without my memories, at the point of my extinction -- then I should probably start enjoying things just a tad more; this is all well and good, but it has come to my attention that I have certain issues that need processing that are, at present, inhibiting my ability to do so. I am a bitter ex-Mormon, with a raging hard-on for atheism. Now there's nothing wrong with the latter part of that statement, except possibly the word choice, but I feel the ex-Mormon part needs some addressing.

I was under the impression that I had already easily negotiated all 5 stages of grief and even Fowler's 6 stages of faith in less than 3.5 seconds (but maybe in regards to the grief, I've been stuck in 1st the entire time: Denial). Given the vastness of my intellect, which by the way, is rivaled only by the immensity of space itself, and my considerably more limited emotional range, I thought that I could put the tragic little episode, popularly known as my Crisis of Faith, behind me, for good, like an unremarkable piece of refuse flushed away and forgotten forever. But I was wrong. Shocking, I know. A good friend of mine from New Zealand, now living in Korea, yes you Justin, has been in contact with me recently over this very blog and the results have been mixed, but usually bad. Bad, because somewhere deep in the recesses of my dark soul, an as yet untapped vein of pent up animosity has been revealed and I haven't handled it well, instead I've started mining. It turns out I'm pissed off, so sometimes I write stupid things like the last post I did (I still held back quite a bit, can't let Mr. ID completely out of the cage. Yet). Call it writing as therapy.

I really thought I was over this. I didn't want this blog to be one of those angry apostate ones. I'm an enlightened individual, above the common pettiness of mere mortals, or so I thought. Perhaps, I somehow managed to ignore the very real pain left in the wake of the upheaval of my entire world. Even convinced myself it wasn't there for a while. I'm good at masking pain (we'll get into that another day), but this time I've really out done myself. If the catholic church has taught me anything it's that when you suppress certain aspects of your humanity that probably should be expressed, sometimes they manifest themselves anyway in unwanted and very repulsive ways (there I go, being offensive again). Somebody get me a fixer. It might be time that I start dealing with my little problem directly, although I'm not sure what that means yet. So, beware as I get all introspective up in this public space, things could get ugly. I guess I just need to be patient and as excruciating as it is humble, as I try to find a new home (in more ways than one), a new way, a greater peace. Shalom.

inspiration for the clinically depressed

Ahh, what should I write about today?

I am currently embroiled in a minor financial, and major existential crisis. Unfortunately, I can foresee neither a benevolent government nor god stepping in to offer a blank cheque bail out on my behalf (Ozomahtli! Why hast thou forsaken me? Please grant me this one request, and if not, then the hell with you!). Sure, there's repentance, its closest religious equivalent, but that's such a messy business, with blood and sacrifice and other undesirable imaginary requirements. Life as a globe trotting master thief is an equally unappealing option. Too, much effort. No, it's just me the world, the problem of other minds and a thousand other considerations. But back to the initial twin burdens, they are chronic conditions, not at all acute, unless it's a particularly bad day. I don't even know what today was. Hmm, Apathy is that you? Not helping things.

Am I an extreme pessimist? It seems so. Delving into my psyche I have come to realize that if I were a character from the Winnie the Pooh universe I'd most definitely be Eeyore. This is disappointing for a number of reasons, first of all Winnie Pooh is a castrato , you can tell because he doesn't wear underwear and by the way he talks, there's a salient allegory in there somewhere, second, I've destroyed any credibility that this post may have had by an appeal to he and his compatriots, and perhaps most importantly: Eeyore sucks balls. There's nothing like a healthy dose of reality to crush the spirits of the irrationally optimistic. I have a special calling in life. I'm not complaining. Not any more than usual. We've all got our jobs to do. Authenticity is the new destiny. I'm just living up to my potential.

But where was I? Money, fame, meaning. It's hopeless isn't it? Striving for something that is in all probability impossible. Dieing would be much easier than all of this. But who wants to do that? I wage a constant war of attrition with myself. Fight or flight? Do I look my demons in the eye and laugh them to scorn or do I bend like bamboo in the wind and live to see another day? This is bordering on bad poetry. Death, the final frontier, the undiscovered country, live long and prosper that you may never meet what's his face with the scythe thingy. Death that is the answer isn't it? At least according to Steve Jobs and he knows everything.

I have a grave stone sitting on my dresser inscribed: Loren T N Hopkins, Handsome Jerk, 1979 - . It is a constant reminder that I'm handsome, a jerk and that one day I'll probably die. When I first started going bald, that's when I knew I was mortal (that line never gets old). Gradually my invincibility began to deteriorate along with my hairline, as if I were a nazarite for the 21st century. Like Sampson before me the loss of locks meant no more mojo. Tragically, my fate would be his, for I am incapable of living up to the vow that they of olden time made: I cannot avoid corpses, because I am becoming one. This is a breath of fresh air.

Jobs. Explain yourself: "Almost everything--all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure--these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart." Holy shit I'm going to die. Time do something. And thus it is amen.

pessimism, the answer to all my problems

I wake up in the morning and face death. It sits on my desk staring at me.

Forever cherished until we forget

Loren Tofiulu Niklaus Hopkins

1979 -?

My once and future grave stone, a sobering reminder that one day will be my last. It's like an existential google calender pop up reminder. Well, I must get onto that: getting busy living, that is, because I'm already busy dying.

Some people like to describe my condition as depressive realism i.e. seeing things as they really are (in so far as that is possible). Why remind myself of unpleasant inevitabilities, when there are a plethora of other, more uplifting stimuli, crying out for attention? "When a man knows he's to be hanged [or dead] in a fortnight, it focuses his mind wonderfully."I don't have a clear deadline yet, but I think I prefer it that way.

I've succeeded in deconstructing my reality, the question is how to proceed now that the rebuilding process has begun and my impending doom has a new found sense of finality (yes, this is a direct response to over smiley hand clappy people that occasionally cross my path). A story borrowed from truehoop:

Optimism is a critical survival tool, but only when it's balanced with realism. This concept is known as the Stockdale Paradox, named after Admiral James Stockdale, the highest-ranking American prisoner of war in Vietnam.

The idea was popularized by author Jim Collins in his best-selling book Good to Great. When Collins asked Stockdale to explain which American prisoners did not survive captivity in Vietnam, the admiral replied, "Oh, that's easy. The optimists."

Collins was perplexed, but Stockdale explained that the optimists "were the ones who said 'we're going to be out by Christmas.' And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go; and then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart."

Stockdale went on: "This is a very important lesson. You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end - which you can never afford to lose - with discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be."

There will be no broken hearts this valentines day. For best results be as pragmatic as possible. I rest my case in peace.

deus ex machina?

Never expose yourself unnecessarily to danger; a miracle may not save you...and if it does, it will be deducted from your share of luck or merit. - The Talmud

I can't tell if I'm more or less prone to accidents than others. I've only been me as long as I can remember. Going on pure intuition, I'd say I have a higher incidence than most. This is mere speculation. I wont bother to innumerate the painful details surrounding the events of my inductive reasoning here, one will suffice.

I was 6, maybe 7, years old and my parents generously decided that the passing of another birthday was cause for excessive celebration. Their gift as recognition for my being year older surpassed any reasonable expectation, considering that neither 6 nor 7 are notable milestones as far as age goes. We were a middle class family and I suppose in typical middle class fashion we (or they) spent more than they could afford. I didn't complain. They flew me from New Zealand to Hawaii. Hang loose dude.

We stayed with one of my cousins there. During an excursion to a public pool, my dad helped my younger cousin restrap his goggles which had become loose. I stayed in the pool while they worked on their little project out on the margins of the poolside area. I was instructed to hold on to the edge . I hadn't yet learned to swim. A gross over sight, as I'd soon discover, but a marginal concern at the time. I don't know if I was bored, suicidal or just stupid, but somehow I managed to lose my grip on terra firma and I found myself "floating" helplessly away from safety and into the 6 foot deep abyss of chlorine flavoured water.

I had a perfect understanding of what was happening at that moment. I was drowning and I could possibly die. That's an unacceptable outcome when all you're trying to do is enjoy your birthday present. I flailed my arms, which didn't seem to help much. I tried to yell for help, but all that did was help me take on water even faster. I learned later in life that sound travels through water more efficiently than it does through air. I know from experience though that this fact works better as a theory than it does in practice.

There I was at the bottom of the pool. Waiting for the grim reaper or hopefully someone else to notice that I was no longer visible above the surface. That's when it happened. I felt 'something', I don't know what, helping me back to the edge, back to safety. Dad came over like the police in every action movie ever made, too late to do anything useful, but just in time to clean up the left overs of the important stuff he missed. I just used up a big chunk of my allotted luck and I wasn't happy.

There are a number of explanations for this unusual occurrence, I will leave many to the imagination but here are some possibilities: I could have spontaneously learned to swim at the exact moment that I needed it the most, through some kind of strange permutation of an adrenaline rush. This seems unlikely, because I didn't officially learn to swim until some ten years later (maybe someone uploaded swimming knowledge into my brain ala the matrix and wiped it as soon as I started breathing air again). Accounting for the helping hand that I remember complicates things. It could be a false memory, a confabulation of a simple child exposed to too much religion. Or I could accept that the universe wanted me around in that and this form for just a little bit longer. This can not be discounted. Anthropomorphising the universe might be frowned upon by people who don't like that sort of thing, so for the sake of the positivists around us let's just say the universe for no particular reason kept me alive that day. That cannot be disputed. I'm still breathing air.

It's tempting to remain agnostic (and by agnostic I just mean in the general sense, a lack of commitment to any explaination at all) about my deliverance from the dread clutches of a watery grave, but that really is a soft option (sometimes). The thing I like about theists and atheists alike is that although they are often ideologically overbearing at the best of times at least you know where they stand. I can understand the merit of suspending judgment on a topic, because all the facts aren't yet in, but it's impossible for us to collect all the facts on most issues (what are you afraid of? that you might, gasp, be wrong about something, that would be just unacceptable), sometimes you just have to make a decision.

My interpretation on what happened is that singularities do exist. If you look at medicine, a discipline that has probably hurt just as many people as it has helped, you'll find that doctor's generally prescribe treatments based on a general model of how a general human will react. On average this is an effective way of working, but not always an efficient one. Each of us is unique physiologically, psychologically and probably just about any other way you can think of. The universal approach is obviously useful for any one that it works for. For patients who are different enough to respond to the standard treatments in unexpected ways (my dad is one of these people, serves him right) particularism needs to come into play. It's rare that you'll find a universal approach that is ever going to work unequivocally in all situations when dealing with complex systems. Chaos can be unpredictable, just like reality. There are just too many anomalies out there. I am one of them. I should be dead.

The End: The mirror doesn't lie.

editor's note: when you begin canabalising your own work that's when you know you've made it...

When I first started going bald, that's when I knew I was mortal.

You never forget that first time feeling when you realize you're fallible, biodegradable.

After passively absorbing mass media paranoia for an undisclosed number of years, you find yourself looking through a fogged lens staring into a different kind of beautiful. You look around. You see caricatures of youth, signifiers with a 'strange valley' feel that tell you something is not quite right. Why settle for temporary cosmetic solutions when you can have the real thing.

My estimated half-life is is just the same as everyone elses. Take the average life expectancy of any westernized nation, adjust for the early years you can never remember and the final ones that you'd rather forget, if Alzheimer's doesn't get you first, then divide by two. According to this rationale, I'm statistically over half-way to extinction.

Nothing like encroaching spectre of death to liven things up a little.

"Die pussy as mothers".

That's Stanislav, he's new to English.

My Eulogy

For fun Fast forward to my death. What would the world look like>>

"We are here today to celebrate the passing, sorry I'm a little nervous. To celebrate the life of our dearly departed friend, the late Loren Hopkins. He was a good man, a kind man, a man of rare and misguided breeding. His scruples we're always wound tighter then a supermodel's butt cheeks, but we loved him. It all started on a beautiful day in 19...blah blah blah."

2 minutes later...

"Damn we'll miss him. Would anyone else like to say anything?

Anyone?"

A dark figure entered from the back of the chapel, he was wearing shutter shades -- a gimcrack that Kanye West had regrettably reintroduced into the sphere of socially acceptable fashion -- and a black three quarter coat. He solemnly marched to the podium and removed his shades. Gasps pinballed throughout the audience.

"Trust me to be late for my own funeral, a few complications almost kept me from being here tonight, but, well, here I am; With apologies to Mark Twain 'The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated', who when you think about it is actually dead now." *Loren paused as if expecting an additional response to this inane insight, it however was easily overpowered in the minds of the onlookers by his surprising revivification.* "Ahem, I appreciate so many of you being here tonight." *In truth the number of attendees left something to be desired.* "And I hate to send you home disappointed, but while I was sitting at the pearly gates waiting for my number to be called I realised that there was something I'd forgotten to do here. As quickly as possible I made arrangements for my return. Many kind things have been said tonight most of which (like my death) were exaggerations. I never quite lived up to my end of the bargain down here, so I've decided to make a comeback and settle my unfinished business. I'm sure you'll all understand, second chances are uncommon, so do what you can when you can and do it the best. It took me a while to learn that, I was 29 years old when I lived for the first time. You'll have to excuse me now, I should be writing. Thank you. Peace out."

There was no solitary clap building in a crescendo to a rousing ovation. There wasn't much of anything in the way of response. Silence hung over the congregation like a very unpleasant cloud.

Then one man stood up. "If you're you, then who's that lying in the casket?!?"

'Ummm."

And so it was that Loren returned to the land of the living.

an unexpected visitor

One of my uncles just died. Ever notice how this always happens at an inconvenient time. Unless you're lucky, death doesn't send out any definitive warning signals. Well, I guess there's cancer. Still sometimes I think that it would be better if I had a set death date (like being on death row, hmmm). That way in theory, at least I'd stop all my wasteful excessive behaviours and focus on the things that really matter and hopefully stop pretending that it isn't going to happen to me one day.

You're never more respected by the living than when you're dead. That's when you really come into your own. Van Gough wasn't jack shiznit until he kicked the bucket. It's a damn shame. What stops us from showing appreciation before it's to late? In the case of discovering talent, bad luck may have something to do with it. When acknowledging sentiment for your close associates, well, it's too much for this male brain to process right now.

I'm sure my uncle was a great guy. I never really got to know him very well, but by all accounts at the funeral he was awesome. It got me thinking (I can't remember which self-help guru suggested this), what if I were to flash forward to my funeral in three days -- if I died today, death please fail me now. What would be said on my behalf... if people were brutally honest?

next: My Uncensored Eulogy