Odd Skeptic Out

Last night I was over at a friend’s house (we’ll call her “S”) for dinner. At some point (I forget how) the conversation wandered over to Edgar Cayce. S told a brief story in which Cayce was about to enter a crowded elevator but, seeing that all the occupants’ auras were dead or dim or something, decided to wait for the next one. The story concludes with the elevator falling, and everyone inside dying horribly. But Cayce was safe, ’cos of his second sight.

Last night I was over at a friend’s house (we’ll call her “S”) for dinner. At some point (I forget how) the conversation wandered over to Edgar Cayce. S told a brief story in which Cayce was about to enter a crowded elevator but, seeing that all the occupants’ auras were dead or dim or something, decided to wait for the next one. The story concludes with the elevator falling, and everyone inside dying horribly. But Cayce was safe, ‘cos of his second sight.

Okay. There are several questions to ask at this point. At the top of the list, of course, are “Did this really happen?” and “How do you know?” And also, “So Cayce just saved his own ass and let everybody else die? Well, good for him, I guess.” But I didn’t say anything. Part of me didn’t want to offend (S is a dear friend, and I was a guest in her home). Part of me figured I probably wouldn’t be changing any minds (there were a couple of people nodding along, though I don’t know if they were just being polite) and it’d just be wasted energy. And, well, I’m just not that quick on my feet. By the time I got beyond raising a skeptical eyebrow, the conversation had moved on. I do a lot better when I get urban legends in my email. Then I can take a minute or two to gather my thoughts, check my favourite debunking sites (Skeptic’s Dictionary and The Urban Legends Reference Pages, if you’re curious) and carefully craft a reply.

A little thing, maybe, but it’s not the first time it happened to me. It soured the rest of the evening a little, and it’s been bugging me all day. Should I have said something? Or not? In a way, it feels like being in the closet, and gathering the energy to come out as a skeptic. (And, funny thing, everybody at the party knows I’m gay, but I don’t know how much they know about my nonbelief). Sigh. So, I’m venting here. Isn’t that what personal sites are for? At least I’ll be better prepared next time.

Movie Review: What The Bleep Do We Know

Tag line: “It’s time to get wise!”

Uh-huh.

I heard about this movie from a friend of mine, who’d seen it, loved it, and urged me to go see it for myself. From the online trailer, and a couple of reviews I’d read, it looked like your typical pretentious yet shallow New Age fluff, and thus a complete waste of my time. Hell, I’d already suffered through half an hour of Waking Life, people! Nobody should have to endure that twice.

Tag line: “It’s time to get wise!”

Uh-huh.

I heard about this movie from a friend of mine, who’d seen it, loved it, and urged me to go see it for myself. From the online trailer, and a couple of reviews I’d read, it looked like your typical pretentious yet shallow New Age fluff, and thus a complete waste of my time. Hell, I’d already suffered through half an hour of Waking Life, people! Nobody should have to endure that twice.

But: This friend is an even bigger skeptic than I am, and every time we saw each other he asked if I’d seen it. When I answered no, he kept insisting I had to see it. Okay, obviously somebody somewhere was missing something, and I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t me. I trusted my friend’s judgement so, even though my expectations weren’t high, I decided I had to go see it for myself. Keep an open mind, right?

My verdict: Bleah. Where do I even start? How about with the lazy, lazy writing? There’s no story here. Most of the movie is taken up by talking heads babbling a lot of platitudes about the wonders and mysteries of Quantum Mechanics and the human mind. Most of what isn’t talking heads is pretty special effects, of atomic nuclei and galaxies and… a sort of wormhole thingy, which maybe was supposed to represent quantum tunneling? I don’t know. Oh, and a shimmering grid occasionally overlaid on the “normal” world, vanishing and reappearing at random, that was supposed to symbolize how illusory the real world is. It looks just like the Enterprise-D’s holodeck grid, except that grid was yellow and this one is blue. A blatant ripoff, in my opinion.

The rest of the movie was taken up by a paper-thin parable, further driving home the messages of the talking heads. The characters are completely two-dimensional, and even that’s probably generous: there’s the Hard-Nosed Skeptic, who eventually starts believing in spite of her better judgement… and for some reason was written as speech-impaired (possibly hearing-impaired as well, though that wasn’t consistently portrayed. More sloppy writing); there’s her roommate (or lover? again, that part wasn’t clear), the Somewhat Ditzy But Nice And Well-Meaning Believer; and you’ve got the Inexplicably Wise Basketball-Playing Kid, who appears out of nowhere to spout yet more wisdom at the Skeptic and coax her “down the rabbit hole.” Viewers may identify with one or more of them to some extent, because they’re so archetypal (to be charitable), but they have no way to really connect with them, or understand what makes them tick. But then, we’re not supposed to connect with these characters. They—along with the talking heads—exist only to serve as mouthpieces for the movie’s Big Message.

And what is that message? The usual New Agey clichés: The denial of objective reality (‘cos we create our own reality, inside our minds and by interacting with the universe, because of quantum); the need for a “new paradigm;” the glorification of mystery over knowledge, and childlike wonder over skepticism; cool-sounding myths that are highly suspect (though not provably false), like the one about Native Caribbean people at first not being able to see Colombus’ ships on the ocean because they’d never seen ships like that before; cool-sounding myths that are provably false, like Transcendental Meditation reducing crime rates. And through it all, very complex topics like QM and cognitive science being either misrepresented or mangled into sweet-tasting sound bites to support these mystical beliefs.

I walked out of the theatre after about 45 minutes; I’d been checking my watch and rolling my eyes for… well, pretty much all of the movie up to that point, really, but the mention of Transcendental Meditation was the last straw.

So what was I supposed to get out of this movie? That the world is a strange and exciting place? Yes, it certainly is. But I already knew that, from reading legitimate science books. That we can be slaves to our own perceptions and assumptions? That it wouldn’t hurt to look at the world with wonder and fresh eyes from time to time? You won’t find me disagreeing. But I believe that movies like What The Bleep Do We Know? are more a distraction than anything else. One may watch it and feel suitably enlightened or at least pleasantly confused, but ultimately the movie offers no genuine substance. Instead it shows some seriously exciting science, hopelessly distorted into a colourful kaleidoscopic jumble that gives lay people only the illusion of understanding. Do you want to see the world and appreciate its beauty? Do you want to change your life, become more than who you are now? Then go out there and do it. You don’t need to waste your time with this vapid mystical fluff. The world is exciting enough without filling your head with other people’s fantasies. As the late, great, Douglas Adams wrote, “Isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?”

…This I Know, For The Bling-Bling Tells Me So

So I’m driving to work this morning, grooving to La bottine souriante, when a car pulls up next to me at a red light. I don’t really pay attention, until I see the guy in the front passenger’s side pulling down his window, specifically trying to get my attention. What the hell? Do I know him? A quick memory scan turns up negative. Has he spotted my rainbow flag bumper sticker and now wants to cruise me? He’s cute, young, with a nice smile and dark spiky hair… and wearing a huge-ass, gaudy gold crucifix, which he’s holding up with a hand graced by an equally huge-ass, equally gaudy gold ring. Get down with your gangsta self, white boy!

So I’m driving to work this morning, grooving to La bottine souriante, when a car pulls up next to me at a red light. I don’t really pay attention, until I see the guy in the front passenger’s side pulling down his window, specifically trying to get my attention. What the hell? Do I know him? A quick memory scan turns up negative. Has he spotted my rainbow flag bumper sticker and now wants to cruise me? He’s cute, young, with a nice smile and dark spiky hair… and wearing a huge-ass, gaudy gold crucifix, which he’s holding up with a hand graced by an equally huge-ass, equally gaudy gold ring. Get down with your gangsta self, white boy! But wait, he’s not just holding up the crucifix, he’s actually kissing it, in between trying to tell me something which I can’t hear because my window is still up.

Whoah. Is this is how the young queers dress and cruise nowadays? Okay, so the light’s still red, and I’m kind of curious (and kind of apprehensive) about this grinning freak. I roll down the window, and finally hear what he has to say.

“Jesus loves you!”

Oh. Well, that’s great. And Santa loves you too. So this wasn’t about my rainbow flag sticker, but my “Born OK The First Time” sticker, and Darwin fish.

Message delivered, my new hit-and-run missionary friend rolls up his window and, the light having turned green, we drive off in different directions.

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with these people? Did they just see a passing heathen, ripe for witnessing, and just unloaded their little catch phrase, which of course I have not heard a million times before, not in person, in print, on TV, on the Net, not me, because I was raised by wolves—atheist wolves, in fact—and have only just this week rejoined civilization. Then they move on, their bellies full of the warm glow of a job well done, having earned another brownie point from Jesus. Not interested in a dialogue. Or even in an argument. Not interested in wondering if this brain-dead tactic actually works. Because I can tell you right now, Gentle Reader, that it did not work on me. Not today, and none of the other times that shit’s been pulled. Did I get all misty-eyed at the thought that some imaginary resurrected being loves me, me personally? Did I suddenly develop a driving urge to immediately explore the holy books relating the story of this Jesus character?

No. No, I did not. But was I pissed at the interruption of a kick-ass Franco-Canadian musical moment? Why, yes I was. Was I filled with disdain for the hiphop missionary, and all missionaries like him, repeating words that had no meaning outside their religion, unable to see any points of view besides their own? I believe that was the case as well. Was I motherfucking creeped out by the crazily compulsive kissing of the crucifix? I will not deny this. And was I more grateful than ever for leaving the baggage of faith behind, having seen—as if I needed another reminder—how it can mess people up? You better believe that’s a yes.

Corvids Are Cool

Every evening before dusk, I can see hundreds of crows flying past my workplace on their way to roost in Burnaby. They stream past, cawing to each other, either alone, in small groups, or in larger murders. (That’s the correct term, incidentally. A murder of crows, an unkindness of ravens, a parliament of rooks, a tiding of magpies—that last one probably referring to magpie counting rhymes. Damn, but Corvids have cool collective nouns.)

Every evening before dusk, I can see hundreds of crows flying past my workplace on their way to roost in Burnaby. They stream past, cawing to each other, either alone, in small groups, or in larger murders. (That’s the correct term, incidentally. A murder of crows, an unkindness of ravens, a parliament of rooks, a tiding of magpies—that last one probably referring to magpie counting rhymes. Damn, but Corvids have cool collective nouns.) Every once in a while I’ve just stood outside and watched them go past. The light’s fading and it’s nippy and sometimes I get bored (if there’s a long gap between groups) or annoyed by the rush-hour traffic or feel self-conscious standing there where the smokers gather during the day. There’s never anybody here this late but if someone I know comes along and asks what I’m doing, I’d feel silly answering, “I’m looking at the crows.” Ah, but then when they do come… I remember how stunned I was the first time I looked, really looked, at crows flying overhead. The birds aren’t out for murder, they’re out for fun, swooping around, mock-fighting, diving at buildings and pulling up at the last minute… All just for the thrill of it. Even in the middle of their commute, they find time for play. Amazing stuff. I could watch them for hours.

And then there are ravens. Back when Cayenta was located up at Discovery Park I’d sometimes hear their distinctive “Rrrrok!” coming from the treetops. (Amusingly, one time it sounded more like “Rrrrowf!”, as though the raven were barking. And maybe it was: they’re apparently very good mimics.) One afternoon I looked up from my desk and saw a raven right outside my (ground-level) window. Let me tell you, ravens are gorgeous creatures, twice as big as crows, with shiny black plumage and nasty-looking beaks. This one had a mouse (or some other small rodent) with it, still alive and feebly struggling; the raven circled its prey, slowly, in what I thought was a very dignified manner, every once in a while giving it a sharp peck. I felt kind of sorry for the little critter but hey, a bird’s gotta eat, and I was fairly desensitized anyway. Our cat back in Ottawa—a first-rate huntress—used to bring us a lot of “gifts.” Besides, I was absolutely fascinated by this beautiful black bird.

I don’t remember what happened after that. At some point I turned back towards my computer—and then the raven was gone, along with the mouse. Oh, well. That was the only time I ever saw a raven up close. In spite of what it was doing, I never thought of it as unkind.

Atheism: A Brief Manifesto

Though I’ve been an atheist for a number of years, it’s not something I usually think about. It doesn’t come up in conversations much. It doesn’t influence my day-to-day life, my job, my choice of clothes, my choice of friends. There are no churches to go to, no holy books to read, no rituals to perform. In a perfect world my lack of faith in deities wouldn’t be any more of an issue than my lack of faith in space aliens or Santa Claus.

Though I’ve been an atheist for a number of years, it’s not something I usually think about. It doesn’t come up in conversations much. It doesn’t influence my day-to-day life, my job, my choice of clothes, my choice of friends. There are no churches to go to, no holy books to read, no rituals to perform. In a perfect world my lack of faith in deities wouldn’t be any more of an issue than my lack of faith in space aliens or Santa Claus. But this is not a perfect world, and I think there is quite a bit to say about faith, and lack thereof.

The bottom line is that I don’t trust faith as a way to know the truth, about gods or anything else. Faith is easy; lots of people have it. Lots of people following lots of different religions and spiritual paths, each believing with equal sincerity, and for basically the same reasons, that they’ve got the right one. So out of all the mutually exclusive belief systems out there, which should I choose? And how? It seems all anyone has to go on are tradition, hope and fear and wishful thinking. That’s not enough for me, though: just because it feels good doesn’t mean it’s true—no matter how much I might want it to be. So until I know the truth for sure, with something more reliable than my heart, I’ll just have to withhold belief. Simple as that.

This is not a bad place to be. I’ve been told that I need spirituality to have hope, give my life meaning, or be happy. However, I don’t agree. It’s true that, once upon a time, I used to wish for some kind of transcendental experience, something that would have brought to life the fantasy worlds I loved so much, and blessed my everyday existence with a little of their magic. But the truth is, there’s plenty of magic and wonder to be had right here in the real world. Not the cheap magic of theology and superstition, with their shallow stories and simplistic moralities, but the much richer awe and inspiration that comes from facing the world and investigating its secrets. There’s no need to dream of an afterlife when there’s so much to see and do in this life. The fact that it won’t last forever doesn’t make it any less special. Quite the opposite, in fact: here and now, I am alive, and this is my only shot at being alive, so I should make the most of it. That may not seem to be a terribly comforting philosophy, but it’s enough for me.

I’ve grown stronger since I lost my beliefs in gods and mysticism. Maybe it’s not the only factor, but I believe it’s been an important one. I don’t waste my energy on false hopes or irrational fears, and so am free to focus on who I am, where I am, and what I really need: to live and learn, and find meaning to life, unburdened by gods or demons. This is what atheism is to me.