Just like having a good sneeze, it's an enjoyable act to entertain a conspiracy. Actually, it’s a form of thought experimentation. Here's a good one to try. Apparently it came from the French mathematician, Poincare. He wondered: what if one night while everyone was asleep the universe became a thousand times greater in size?
No one would be able to tell the difference, he surmised. People would wake up and blindly go about their business as usual. No one would know, because how could they? Their instruments and scales would have increased in size too. Well, that idea disturbed me when I read about it, because got me to conjure up a notion of my own.
What if every day we wake up as different person?
We touched on this earlier in this book where I invited you to step into my shoes. Just as you wouldn’t register a change in size, you wouldn’t know if you’d become another person, not if the procedure involved the complete deletion of your previous memories and the uploading of new ones. You’d wake up with your whole new history in mind, and this would be just another day of the person you now remember being. Oh my! The reason that this idea freaked me out was how could I be sure that it wasn’t already happening?
Consider: we awake into another body. We enter into another life by forgetting the old and assuming the new. We come to consciousness inside another life with its background intact, every episode of all previous seasons. The yesterdays that we recall are its yesterdays, its events and its birthday parties. What a conspiracy that would be, to be forever leaping into new continuums.
I guess you could call it quantum jumping. To all intents and purposes, you become another person with every leap. It stands to reason. That’s more or less how we define selfhood. If a person suddenly occupied another head with exactly the same genes, upbringing, environment, circumstances, knowledge, beliefs and attitudes as that entity—absolutely everything—then they would act and make the very same decisions and choices as he or she.
I’m talking exactly the same here. If you retained any inkling of your former self, would ruin the effect, but without such an inkling—if your brain was well and truly washed—then there’d be no way to tell you had changed hosts, now would there? You wouldn’t know that you were no longer ‘you’. How could you?
Your day would seamlessly ensue from the background of all that had gone before. In every respect you would be who you’d always been. Without the memories and self-awareness of a previous self, you would not miss your earlier existence. It would be like being born again in a sense. We’d be unaware of it having happened because all links would be lost. We’ve reincarnated. Incarcerated. At most there’s just the ghost of déjà vu.
Why could this not be true? It makes such sense that it must be true. This is how things work; that’s how the world is. I’m telling you . . .
No, I shouldn’t be telling you. No-one likes to be told what to think. Okay, please, bear with me. Hear me out. Po statements, remember? These are just fleeting butterflies. Don’t rip their wings off, weasels!
To make our conspiracy even more delicious, I’ll introduce another element to the above scenario by means of a riddle. What do you get when you cross E.T. and The Truman Show? What you get is a secret task.
Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to locate ‘The Other’. It’s to get back into touch with (or meet for the first time; it's a moot point) some really important individual. We share a very close tie of an unknown nature.
But I, or s/he, or even both of us have been brainwashed (as per the above). The knowledge of our relationship has been scrubbed. The grand conspiracy has worked to separate us. (By the way, I’ll use the name Theo from now on—from THE Other—and refer to Theo in the second person singular to avoid having to dither between ‘he’ and ‘she’.)
It has hidden Theo. Maybe you’ve morphed you into an unrecognizable form. I don’t know what you look like, or even if you’re human! I don’t know where you are, or when you live. But somehow through some means or another I must reach you and convince you of our plight.
How’s that for a premise? Rod Serling would have loved it!
I refer to this as a mission because Theo could be anywhere in the world. For all I know, you may be living in another time period also. I hope you don’t live in the past, because how could I you reach backwards in time? But if you occupy the future, then clearly the best way forward is to plant this book for you to find.
Another difficulty is that we wouldn’t necessarily recognize one another on sight. We’re both in mufti. How would we get around that one? I, at least, have the benefit of knowing that there is a person to be on the lookout for. I’ve got my eyes primed. But you don’t necessarily know that there’s even a game on. Your lenses—your overview of the situation—may not be so clear.
Still, I can make a stab at Theo’s characteristics, feelings, perceptions, attitudes and mental orientation. I must trust that you are fortunate enough to live in a relatively open society, one in which differences are at least tolerated, and where it is possible to harbor variant thoughts (as long as you keep them to yourself). Those around you probably follow a conventional religion, and you might also, in spite of the fact that you’re not one-hundred-percent convinced. But Theo is the type of person who goes along with the flow. I warrant that you’re not the sort of person who makes waves.
That being so, I figure my best course of action is to send Theo a message-in-a-bottle. Not only must I spell it out clearly, but I can’t waste any time. An added complication is that things are not static. As the search goes on (and as I write) Theo and I are moving around. Every day we wake up in different bodies.
What a predicament! Is our situation hopeless? Come back and find out—same time, same place, next week.
Our bedtime story for tonight (geez, is it that late in the day already?) is called Lust for Life, or Starry Night, depending on whether we’re in a hedonistic or romantic mood. As you might predict, it’s about Vincent Willem Van Gogh—good biographical fiction.
Not ‘Once upon a time’ but for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt a connection to that soul. I share his nationality, middle name, red beard (before mine went grey) and his socially inept manner. I savor his zest for being, his compassion for his fellow man, his overpowering creative drive, his simple tastes, his passion for life, and the way that he railed relentlessly against physical limits and limited means. I’ve read his letters (to his brother) and covered my walls with his prints. I’ve traced the history of his art and have amassed a library of books. I’ve even named my son after him. If I had been he, I couldn’t have lived a fuller life.
Maybe that’s an indication. Maybe I was once Vincent Van Gogh. Would it be so very far-fetched to imagine that he and I are one? Suppose that he is me reborn into this present body. As a thought experiment, where would that take us?
We’d need to think along the lines of reincarnation; I don’t think you can avoid it. For the sake of argument—no, not ‘argument’; who wants to argue? So, for the sake of, oh, I don’t know, mental gymnastics?—let’s suppose that reincarnation is possible. After all, the greater fraction of the world does.
Do I have any evidence—not of reincarnation in general, but of this particular instance?
Well no, I don’t have any clear memories of being him. I haven’t gone through any déjà vu moments of mixing pigments or of attacking a canvas. I haven’t an unexplained taste for tobacco and absinthe. But that’s okay. The absence of hard evidence doesn’t rule out the possibility of a common ancestry.
Still, there are documented accounts of people recalling where treasure is hidden under the floorboards of a house of a previous life. It’s been mentioned in books. Urban legends abound, so let's allow that it has happened. It's just that where Vincent is concerned, I don’t possess that power of recall.
Since it's rare for people to have memories of their previous lives, reincarnation must involve rigorous brainwashing. Otherwise we’d all be confused about our identity. That would explain my inability to demonstrate a closer connection. The exception proves the rule, so there's hope for me and Vinnie yet.
Say that I’m right. How then to explain the period of time—a half century or so—from the day Vincent shot himself (thirty hours later, actually, and possibly by a teenager) to the day on which I was born? Does that pose a problem?
I can’t see that it would. For reincarnation to be the norm, it would be quite inconvenient for the next life to have to start the instant one shuffled off one’s previous life’s mortal coil. The bookkeeping system for that would beggar belief.
My point is: time ought not to be a problem for a god. God can cope, surely. We want God to be time’s master—I mean, who is in charge here? An all-powerful god must be able to run rings around any old sundial. For souls in a state of limbo in between lives, there must be some cosmic equivalent of a capsule hotel. The Milky Way Transit Lounge Cafeteria—I can picture Douglas Adams there.
Get ready for another character to join the cast of—what was it again—Starry Night for Lust? Vincent is to be joined onstage by another personage from history. No less a figure than our old friend Einstein is preparing himself to step onto the stage (he’s in make-up now). He has earned a permanent spot after a number of successful guest appearances. But before he makes his entrance, I’ll risk peppering the next few paragraphs with another loaded word or two.
Maybe ‘loaded’ is too harsh, because these days terms like ‘reincarnation’ and ‘transmigration’ are quite tame. No, they probably won’t hurt. They may actually boost customer interest because of their mildly exotic flavor, just as women’s magazines sell more copies when they feature a member of royalty on their cover. Some Eastern spice may also help to moderate any mainstream hellfire. How hot can you stand your curry?
Reincarnation as a concept is now quite middle-of-the-road. Pre-Shirley MacLaine, though, it was wonderfully wild and woolly. But the spread of Hatha Yoga and the ubiquitous Hare Krishna lunch has helped it to establish a market niche, so there’s no need for me to write a primer. I’ll confine myself to examining the part it has to play in my drama of fancying myself a reincarnation of Vincent Van Gogh.
To start with, reincarnation can’t involve just Vinnie and me. Everyone must be included. A tango for two does not make much sense. We have a packed house, and people are not here just to watch. We’re all whirring madly en masse, changing partners on cue. I’m going to treat reincarnation as the rule, not the exception.
Now, it follows that reincarnation must be a series of repeats. This is not about playing musical chairs. It wouldn’t make sense for the music to stop once Vincent becomes me. Nothing is likely to wear out by our continuing to leapfrog. The soul, should it exist, is undoubtedly as hardy as DNA. One reincarnation, two, or a series stretching all the way back to whenever, should not be impossible. We’re born, we live, we die and then again we are reborn. There’s a bit of ad infinitum going on.
Another feature of the process of reincarnation is that we naturally assume it to be geographically unchallenged. Should one’s rebirth involve relocation miles away, maybe in another country, we take that as a given. Those considerations don’t impede us. Would you foresee difficulties with transporting spirits across oceans and mountain ranges? Do you have a problem with being broadcast to another planet? No? Mighty! You’re my kind of alien.
Next, what about the timing? I mean, there’s usually a time lag, no? The next Dalai Lama isn’t necessarily born the instant that his predecessor snuffs it. It might take years before the right body comes along. It might be a century until the the signs are auspicious. But I suspect that this wouldn’t cause you to worry either, right? Very well, we’re motoring! Let’s move on right along.
The situation at the other end of the scale—that is, when the transition is to occur instantaneously—doesn’t faze us either. As far as we’re concerned, it can happen as quickly as it likes. Someone dies, and we don’t bat an eyelid to imagine that person reborn an instant later across the ocean.
We accept—expect—that should a reincarnation event require an astronaut’s soul to jump from a fatal accident on the moon to a baby on the dark side of the earth (Scotty, beam me up), then we wouldn’t bat an eyelid. We wouldn’t consider that as lying beyond the powers of the entity in charge. Sure, it takes light a fraction of a second to make the leap, but there’s no earthly need for souls to be so slow. Jack, flick that switch. (Hey up! For a god who we weren’t could mountains or walk on water, (s)he’s doing fine!)
Now that we’re running so hot, how about a spot of transmigration to stir the waters? You know, being demoted (or promoted) to a dolphin, because in your previous life you were so into surfing, or a pig because gluttony was your vice. Yes? You can handle that? I’m impressed. Are you up for more? We’ll just take a moment to review where we’ve got before the neck show.
Okay then, let's tally. First, we touched on the concept of God, where I’ll admit that I might have employed a certain sleight of hand (in the spirit of the means justifying the end). We established that there is one of some form or other, and we fondly nicknamed it Dog (what, you don’t name your pets?).
We established that fact quickly to erect a platform upon which to build (and then launch off from), not just for the sake of argument, mental exercise, or fun. I trust that you are satisfied that there’s some sort of power, even if that role devolves as yours. No way should you fear it—neither that Being, nor of having that mantle bestowed.
We chose to accept reincarnation as a possibility. We tossed around that concept so as to snap off a few sticks with which to build. Men at work: mental Meccano construction. Assuming that it operates, and that it is administered by man’s best friend, Dog (who better?) we’re not going to place limits on what can and can’t be done.
Reincarnation may occur as many times as it likes, without the essential DNA ever wearing out. It occurs as a series, and to everyone—not only to a select few. It doesn’t see bestiality as an issue—no, not that. You know what I mean. At death—physical death—the soul leaps merrily across time and space to take up residence in another body, geographical location not being an issue, and time not being of much concern either.
We were happy for reincarnation to suspend time for as long as it likes, and to leap periods of time ‘at a single bound’, if need be faster than light. Ah, but can it do the superman thing and spin itself backwards along the fourth dimension?
That’s a new one for you, isn’t it? Take a minute or two. Don’t snap back at me with an answer; I want you to give it some serious thought. Is it possible for someone to be reborn at an earlier hour, date, or year than that person’s death?
Tilt your head one way then the other, but hold onto your hat. We’re preparing to topple old Father Time from his throne, just as soon as we’re done with our recap. We’re going to turn the hourglass on its head and chop it into smithereens!
But to continue with my story—time’s a-ticking on that 24-hour dial—you have a problem when you want to be both Van Gogh and Einstein, namely that Einstein was born whilst Van Gogh was still living. Their lives overlap. Hm, bummer.
Not only that, Einstein was still alive when I was already a toddler (not really, but we’ll imagine that this is the case). Damn! Somehow there’s got to be a way. But how could a soul wangle it so as to be alive in two places simultaneously, which is the only way that I can see it working?
I see no obvious solution, but that’s no reason to give up. There has got to be a way—remember that Dog ought not to be restricted by time (or by anything). How might that mighty beast crack this particular bone?
What I’ll do is to recycle our conspiracy notion of being reborn into another body every day—that one awakes as someone new and comes to consciousness with all the memories, attributes and inclinations of an entirely different person.
As I’ve pointed out, there’d be no way to tell you’d changed hosts. You wouldn’t know that you were no longer ‘you’. Your day would seamlessly stream forth from the background of all that had gone before. To all intents and purposes, you would ‘be’ who you had always been. Without the memories and self-awareness of a previous self, you would not miss your earlier existence one little bit.
Now, that may sound depressing. It wouldn’t surprise me if it did. Most people clutch fast to individual identity—see how they cling to life at death—and they strongly resist the idea of a collective consciousness like the plague. Therefore, I can understand how the idea of giving up one’s ghost on a daily basis would be repellant.
But not so fast. Give that po statement a little time. Try to realize—you’re not losing a daughter, you’re gaining a son. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get to be ‘you’ again, and much sooner than you imagine.
Are you willing to wind things up a notch? All righty! Here’s your next assignment. We’re going to work on getting you up to speed. Strap yourself in. I’m going to get you to suppose that reincarnation is unlimited in another way. Imagine that it doesn’t wait for your life to end before it kicks in. Ooh hell, hold on now!
The idea, which we've already encountered, is that during sleep you become another person. There are a couple of things that that would require.
First, is that your hardware can miraculously reboot. Previous memories get wiped and replaced with another set so thoroughly that there’s no sign. After your new identity has uploaded, you behave exactly as he or she (or dolphin) would. Yes, it’s a mind bender, but I’m sure you’ll get over it. You’d better, because we’re about to open up the throttle.
The second thing to grasp is that improved-Persil reincarnation serves to slot us, Matrix-like, into the next life as fully-formed adults, so that our consciousness is not obliged to grow up from babyhood.
There are more steps to go. I eased you into this thought experiment by putting you to sleep, as it were. I had the change of identity occur at night. I now propose that we can fast-forward reincarnation. I’m going to have it happen more frequently than once a day.
We’ve no choice. The engine would surely stall if we had to hang about twenty-four-hour intervals. There’s no such clock, in my opinion. Such a mechanism would be far too cumbersome.
Besides, we humans don’t pass our days so regularly and clear-cut. We live in every time zone. Some of us work night-shift, or attend all-night parties. We’re up at all hours of the day and night. So prepare yourself, if you would (and if you can) for a huge jump in quantum mechanics: one small step for man; a giant leap for mankind.
Consider that reincarnation may occur, not after an entire lifetime, not at the end of each day, but after a fraction of a second. Is that beyond you? Here, let me help.
Think of any two people. Oh, I don’t know . . . Van Gogh and Einstein? Envisage the self-knowledge, awareness of self, or consciousness of one darting into the other. Shift their identities. And then an instant later, switch them back.
Did you manage to? Do it again and again. Make them go back and forth like a see-saw on steroids. Speed it up until it’s like they’re vibrating. Half a second, a quarter, an eighth . . . Can you imagine it?
Don’t worry about the mechanics, the whys and wherefores, the logistics and the dizziness. (I’ll get you a pill for the nausea.) They are not your concern. Just try to envisage the process of flitting into someone else’s shoes intact with all that person’s memories, history, genetic makeup, and everything else.
Here’s another way to picture it. Compare this process to the principle behind moving pictures. You know how film is put together frame by frame. Flash twenty-five images per second upon the screen (less in some cartoons, where you can perceive the jerkiness) and there you have it: the illusion of movement come to life. The movie seems to run continuously, but that is only an illusion. What if the same rule applied to how we sensed our being-ness? What if life was a series of rapid-fire stills?
Okay, okay, just give me a minute. Is this where you’re going? Einstein and Van Gogh are a dual identity. Their personalities dither. Each is filled to the bursting point with self-awareness. Each believes himself unique and separate. Yet, for the eighteen or so years that their lives overlap, they are joined more tightly than any pair of Siamese twins. Nevertheless, they remain utterly unaware of the connection.
We could suppose that Van Gogh and Einstein (and me too, yes) comprise some sort of living strand. Should we co-opt the term ‘string theory’? Is that what we’ve got—chains of people hooked up? Am I building up to a collection of of these reincarnation threads?
No, not exactly. You haven’t quite got the cat by the tail. This isn’t a question of who gets to ‘bag’ which being – I grabbed Van Gogh and Einstein, so you get to nab Da Vinci and Tom Cruise. No, no, no! Think larger and grander. Think of the bigger picture.
Here’s what I suggest that you do. Imagine that the rate of reincarnation were increased. Turn that dial. Increase our speed up to a rate that makes it ridiculous to hang onto the term reincarnation—it’s too much of a mouthful to work properly at this velocity. From now on I’ll refer to what we’re doing as flitzing. Think of it as reincarnation on broadband.
‘But why?’ you ask, ‘For what the reason? Don’t you know that you’re giving me a headache?’
Yes, I appreciate that this isn’t easy. Think of this as a particularly tough lesson in quantum consciousness. Though it’s tough to get your brain around these concepts, a thorough understanding of the underlying principles will set you free. It will confer upon you unbelievable power.
Just as matter and energy can be broken down into the smallest of particles, wavelets, bits of string or what have you, let’s say that consciousness is also quantifiable. Fine, roll your eyes at me. I told you that I read science fiction. What possible reason could I have to take us into La-la-land territory? Hold your horses, I say. Po statements, remember?
I’m talking not just billionths of a second, but billionths of billionths. Nanos, picos and further. And at every miniscule point in time, a flitz occurs. Yes, you read me rightly. At every conceivable instant one is another person—no, I’ll expand the field—another being.
I propose that one’s soul is one spark of consciousness that leaps about the universe in quantum-sized instants—shall we call them quarks, quirks, snips or snarks? I’m open to suggestions. I want your spark of consciousness to have time to flitz a circuit of every centre of consciousness, into every creature, plant or life form, so that it seemed it had never gone missing. This arrangement would permit the illusion, in all of the life forms that it touches, that he, she or it is continuously, uniquely and separately alive.
You see where I’m headed, don’t you? I’m about to string together these nothing moments into an unbroken, unbreaking wave. Our perception of the present, our most intimate experience of being, is itself the greatest testament of, argument for and proof of quantum-mechanical-reincarnation. Ism is hidden clockwork that jerks life along by the bootstraps.
We insist on regarding ourselves as individuals with separate souls living independent lives. We act as though we are discrete—fenced off from one another by date and location. We see our lifespans as a linear progression of personally relevant events.
But I put it to you that we’re finger puppets, and that together we make up one enormous hand. Can your self-awareness stretch that ultimate octave? We’re alone, and yet we’re totally together, like tube feet on a starfish, or the cilia on a single-celled organism. We’ve got to get it all together if we want to work in concert. The question is how.
So . . . let me get this straight. What you’re saying, I think, is that there’s just us—WE—plus God, right? Us and Him—a kind of duality. But that doesn't help me understand what God wants. What is it that he wants us—ME—to do? What is my—OUR—purpose?
Ah, you still imagine yourself separate.
Whoa now! You’re not going to . . . I mean, you can’t mean . . . Are you telling me . . .?
Just what the hell is this—some unholy text? Is the writer the devil in disguise? Is that what’s going on here? Is he (or I) fooling with your mind? Or am I the Antichrist come for your soul? Danger, Will Robertson!
Who knows? It could be—I mean I could be. It depends what the people who thought up that term had in mind. Could they have seen any of this coming? Certainly the ideas contained herein could change a person’s thinking. They could make you see the world very differently. You might decide that everything you thought you knew is way off the mark. And if what I say causes you to discard your religious convictions, then I suppose that I lay myself open to the charge.
But would that be such a bad thing? Aren’t you halfway there already? Western society has already largely weaned itself away from the idea of a vengeful and jealous Dog. Come on now, really. Is there anyone who still seriously believes in hell, damnation and original sin, and a red-skinned devil with horns on his head pointing a pitchfork? The sooner we escape the clutches of such crackpot witchery the better, it seems to me.
I must tell you about another science fiction story. Naturally, an alien race was involved, humanoid (writers should always keep in mind the possibility of a film adaptation). In fact, the aliens were virtually identical to human beings—two sexes and all. The major difference was that they were about a thousand times larger, and their inclination was to swat us like midges.
Before colonizing the earth, the giants sent out an exploration party. Some sort of fracas resulted from which the aliens came off second best. One or two survived, but they were brain-dead and no use for interrogation.
As an aside, consider the concept of ‘alien’. According to Ism ideology, there is no such thing of course. We’re all just appendages on the same tree. We’re simply differently shaped limbs on the one jabberwocky. Aliens, plants, or whatever—we’re all just talons, tentacles, trunks and wings. How daft it would be, for instance, if your legs stood in mortal fear of your arms. Still, in such a situation what are you going to do when an alien appears? Philosophize? No way, you pull out your blaster.
Getting back to the story, these aliens were so gigantic that after their prefrontal lobes were removed—their head injuries required major surgery—there was enough space for a lunar module-style office to be built inside the giant’s head. Living quarters were duly installed, along with a contraption that an astronaut-operator used to control the hulk of the giant’s body. Wired up to the remnants of the giant’s brain, he monitored the environment through the giant’s own eyes.
After about six months of training the operator learned the alien’s language and so forth. I don’t know how that went. Maybe it was possible to access the alien’s memory banks. And eventually the human-operated alien was sent back to its home planet in the original spaceship on another fact-gathering mission, this time for 'our' side.
I’m not sure how things turned out after that. For me, the best part of the story was how it portrayed consciousness. The idea that it is the controlling force that sits behind your eyes. Seen in that light, every life form is just a vehicle. Inside every head there sits an operator (begging the question of what homunculus sits behind the operator’s eyes).
