As you may have noticed, The Art of Irreverence has the odd distinction of published exclusively at 11:11 (and 23:11, if you follow a 24-hour clock). One reason is to limit the number of posts I can publish on any given day. Another reason is that I like symmetry. But it goes beyond that.
When I was young, my sister taught me to make a wish whenever the clock read 11:11. Then, in young adulthood, I began finding myself looking at the clock at 11:11, unintentionally, on a daily basis. Sometimes twice daily. The prevailing theory at the time was that it had something to do with my biological clock. Another theory, perhaps the stronger of the two, was that I looked at the clock frequently throughout the day, but it only registered at 11:11.
I never believed there was anything “higher” to the elevens, but I became interested in how my mind would attempt to ascribe meaning to it. What was I thinking in those fleeting moments? Was I doing anything interesting at the time? Disappointingly, the fact that I knew I was tracking my quest for meaning completely undermined the experiment.
Then something amazing happened. The blog I was keeping at the time, which was also published at 11:11, got its first and only comment. It was someone telling me that the many people who notice the clock at 11:11 were channeling angels. No lie. Read all about it. Apparently this is somehow connected to the Urantia Book.
After several years, I started noticing 11:10 much more frequently than 11:11. And yet my love for the elevens continued to grow.
The 11:11 angels ended up becoming an ironic symbol for me. I both love and hate that there are people out there that believe this stuff. The funny thing is, it’s just as valuable and likely as any other religion. As in, not very.
You knew I was an atheist, right?
So, I continue to celebrate the elevens, not just as a bizarre religious tenet, but also as forced meaning ascribed to completely random (though surprisingly consistent) occurances.
I wrote a similar blog about numbers in greater depth. Though I botched the ending up so I need to reread and recapture the reigns.
One day I’ll map out my footsteps through the last three years of my life and describe the metaphysical implications behind numbers.
But the thing is, there’s just as much for as against any purpose.
Choosing a belief is a maddeningly frustrating pursuit if, unlike almost every (fearful) human, you actually stop to truly think about it objectively.
And objective contemplation only leaves you with the truth that you cannot possibly be positive about any ‘truth’ in the least.
A total conviction in any one belief requires a certain element of faith, just as you’d put faith in your pilot to land in La Guardia airport on schedule instead of crashing you into Niagara Falls in an unpredictable fit of the crazies.
Consequentially, no matter who how much wisdom you absorb, you’re still essentially choosing your belief like you might choose an ice cream flavor- whatever suits your taste the most.
Because if you can’t ever truly filter objective truth purely, you may as well enjoy the parfait.
Though I have been experiencing some spooky revelations concerning the universal language of numbers.
But that’s the problem with marijuana. And mushrooms. And acid. And opiates. And nitrous. And a lack of social experiences in the defining moments of a home-schooled childhood.
So here’s where I raise my glass of straight vodka to objectivity, life’s unbiased tour guide and hope for the best.