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“Writers imagine that they cull stories from the world. I’m beginning to believe that vanity makes them think so. That it’s actually the other way around. Stories cull writers from the world. Stories reveal themselves to us. The public narrative, the private narrative – they colonize us. They commission us. They insist on being told. Fiction and nonfiction are only different techniques of story telling. For reasons that I don’t fully understand, fiction dances out of me, and nonfiction is wrenched out by the aching, broken world I wake up to every morning.”
― Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things
A few weeks ago, it was beginning to feel like stories were not just revealing themselves to me. They were consuming my energy, depriving me of sleep, and beating my psyche to a bloody pulp. At that time, I entered a brief period of self-induced writer’s block, for “the aching, broken world I wake up to every morning” had become too much to bear. But you can’t keep a good man down, and this is my coming out party. What the hell? Sleep is way overrated, and what does a guy my age need with a healthy psyche anyway? Perhaps if nonfiction is interspersed with a healthy dose of whimsical fiction, the pain will be more bearable.
If you could invite a half dozen historical figures to dinner, who would receive the invitations? Dead or alive, your guests would show up for a night of serious conversation or drunken debauchery. Your choice. The feast would be catered, so you wouldn’t have to worry about preparation, and translators would be on hand. While you toss that around, I’ll share my choices.
Since I’m an atheist, it may be surprising that my guests will include the most prominent figures from three of the world’s most influential religions. I’ll be waiting at the front door to greet Gautama Buddha, Muhammad, and Jesus of Nazareth, but I won’t hold my breath. The very probability that these three characters ever existed is highly questionable, being from the oh-so-distant past. ‘Tis likely all three are made up fictional figments of zealous imaginations. Religious scholars will dispute my doubts, but of course their jobs depend upon not asking such questions. I’ve purposely excluded a representative from Hinduism with reasons: Too freaking confusing, no prominent human prophet, and way too many gods. Anyway, if there are any no-shows, it’ll monkey-wrench a lot of sacred religious hoopla, and bring into question any shred of validity within the realms of Buddhism, Islam, and/or Christianity. If any or all do attend, the conversation should be lively, enlightening, and enjoyable. As an added bonus, with Jesus in the group, we’ll never run out of wine. One way or the other, it’s worth the risk of a wasted invitation or three.
My fourth guest, who absolutely did exist, is John Lennon. With the possibility of Jesus, Buddha, and Muhammed in attendance, how could I not invite my favorite musician, political activist, and fellow-atheist? And how could the ensuing conversation be anything short of lively and interesting? After all, as John commented previously on the other guests:
“I believe in God, but not as one thing, not as an old man in the sky. I believe that what people call God is something in all of us. I believe that what Jesus and Muhammed and Buddha and all the rest said was right. It’s just that the translations have gone wrong.”
John Lennon and I share a common connection to guest number five. The Grateful Dead called him “Bear”. Stanley Owsley was a Merry Prankster, chemist, and sound engineer who figured very prominently into the all too brief 60’s Era of Enlightenment. There would never have been an Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, and The Grateful Dead would never have been able to produce their signature psychedelic sound without Bear. John Lennon and I would have had a serious supply problem if Stanley hadn’t produced some ten million doses of high-quality Owsley Acid in the mid-60’s. I told Bear that Jesus has the wine covered…just bring seven tabs of your purest product. I’m already tingling with excitement at the prospect of dropping Acid with this distinguished group.
Musk: He better watch his back.
Besides myself, guest number six is the only one who’s still alive and kicking. But I’m no spring rooster, and Elon Musk‘s longevity is questionable too, given that he’s likely in the crosshairs of the oil, gas, coal, and nuclear power industries. Let’s hope he’s hired dependable security. Musk’s contributions to Mother Earth’s well-being and future potential cannot be overestimated. As CEO of Tesla Motors/Industries, he’s online to help potentially eliminate any future need for fossil fuels, and to curtail global climate change. A serious nightmare for those Wall Street corporations which choose not to change and adapt. But his breakthroughs in solar power aren’t the reason he’ll be attending my soiree. Nor are his ventures into the outer limits via SpaceX, nor into the world of finance via PayPal.
If I’d chosen to invite a seventh party, the invitation would have gone to Hunter S. Thompson. He’d have enjoyed an overdose of Jesus’ wine, and especially Bear’s Lysergic Acid Diethylamide. “It’s never as it seems, Bubba.” he would have growled with a grin. If Elon Musk, maybe the most brilliant billionaire to ever take a breath, is correct…things are far different than they seem. Far different than most folks could possibly imagine.
Elon Musk borrowed his Matrix Theory from Oxford Professor Nick Bostrom, who published an article in 2003 titled: “Are You Living in a Computer Simulation?” Musk believes that life, as we know it, is no more than a computer simulation, being played by our descendants maybe 10,000 years in the future. And he believes this so strongly, that he says chances are billions to one against Bostrom’s theory NOT being true. I’ve been mulling over the Matrix Theory for a year or more now. The more I think about it, the more likely I am to buy into it. Life on Planet Earth has become just too weird to have evolved to this point on its own, and too weird to be the product of Divine intervention by any sane Deity. I’m guessing that if there’s futuristic computer geek who’s gaming us, he has a somewhat warped sense of humor.
And so the party begins. The guests have arrived, the wine is flowing, hors d’oeuvres have arrived, the L.S.D. is ingested, and the as yet undetermined number of us leave our personalities and social defenses behind, taking a giant step through Aldous Huxley’s Doors of Perception. Where the conversation goes is anybody’s guess. Creationism? Theism? Deism? Primordial Ooze? Matrix Theory? String Theory? All subjects are on the table. Who knows? And when it comes right down to it, who will ever know the answers to the questions that have puzzled mankind for so many eons. Whether we’re under the Divine Guidance of some almighty God or semi-autonomous pawns in some futuristic video game, it’s out of our control. Much like my imaginary dinner…vastly interesting, but a trivial waste of time, not really worth losing much sleep over, and not containing any actual sustenance.
If living beings are computer-generated, our programmers have done a damn thorough job. We feel joy and pain. We’re born, we procreate, we bleed, we die. We love, we hate, we fight. And I don’t know about you, but I’m fairly certain that I have some degree of free will. Those of us who have been culled from the world to tell its stories, who’ve been chosen to fight Mother Earth’s battles with pens mightier than swords, have little time to bemoan our perceived failures. We are at war with the Forces of Darkness, doing battle with the ignorance they create, and possess no Google Maps to lead us down the road to victory. We who write the world’s stories have a duty. The stories insist on being told, and they’ve chosen us to do so. Our job is to do what we can to fix the aching, broken world.
My friend John Lennon is tugging at my sleeve, telling me that he’d like to have the last few words: “Get out there and get peace, think peace, and live peace and breathe peace, and you’ll get it as soon as you like.”
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[su_box title=”About the Author” style=”bubbles” box_color=”#7ea2c0″] 
JOHN R. HALL, Senior Contributing Editor John R. Hall is a street-trained agnotologist with an advanced degree in American Ignorance. Other hats include: photojournalist, novelist, restaurateur, mountaineer, grocer, nurseryman, and janitor. He’s written three novels which have been read by almost nobody: ‘Embracing Darwin’, ‘Last Dance in Lubberland’, and ‘Atlas fumbled’. An untrained writer and college drop-out, he began his short career in journalism writing the ‘Excursion’ column for The Jackson Hole News & Guide. More recently he penned the ‘Left Column’ for The Molokai Island Times; appropriately on the island once known as a leper colony. John currently resides, writes, and protests injustice in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and walks among the spirits of those who once occupied the 79 Disappeared Pueblos. Read more John Halls’s articles. [/su_box]
Since I’m an atheist, it may be surprising that my guests will include the most prominent figures from three of the world’s most influential religions. I’ll be waiting at the front door to greet Gautama Buddha, Muhammad, and Jesus of Nazareth, but I won’t hold my breath. The very probability that these three characters ever existed is highly questionable, being from the oh-so-distant past. ‘Tis likely all three are made up fictional figments of zealous imaginations. Religious scholars will dispute my doubts, but of course their jobs depend upon not asking such questions. I’ve purposely excluded a representative from Hinduism with reasons: Too freaking confusing, no prominent human prophet, and way too many gods.
