Confessions of an Outlier

I have always found it tedious writing or speaking about myself. This is because I believe ideas are far more important than the person behind those ideas. For the same reason I am always cautious not to appear too self-indulgent or arrogant. It is true that I am socially awkward and shy — not that you would necessarily believe that should you hear me speak in public. I invariably come across as self-assured, outgoing and passionate. This is pure theatre — a mechanism I nurtured to deal with my innate reserve, lack of confidence, and deep-seated doubts regarding my abilities. Or rather, the lack of them.

Only a few close friends comprehend how grueling it is for me to open up to others emotionally in order to pour out any grief or anxieties I might be harbouring. I prefer to carry that load rather than burden others. Perhaps I am unusual in that regard? An outlier. But, by and large, I assume my personal qualities are sufficiently exposed through the opinions I express in my writing, or the blunt stance I take when speaking about the human condition, alternative futures, and the state of the world.

However, following the unexpected popularity of a recent article of mine on sociopathic leaders, a large number of readers have expressed their curiosity about my cynicism, personal philosophy on life, and what they interpret to be gloomy prognoses regarding the future of our civilisation. Unable to ignore such requests I am hoping some kind of contextual clarification might suffice to fill in the gaps. I hope that in writing this I do not automatically fall into the trap of self-indulgence.

I find it awkward turning the spotlight on myself so as to convey those things that make me tick; to reveal more of myself than I would normally. Naturally any disclosures of that nature are provisional — at best a snap shot of past and present feelings and insights. But they gradually become part of a personal story, a chronicle, starting at an early age of “awareness” and constantly twisting and turning in the most unexpected ways during the fleeting passage from birth to death.

As I am sure most people discover, the guiding principles first discerned in early childhood, act as a moral compass and guide throughout life. My own epiphany in that respect occurred relatively late in my development — a day before my thirteenth birthday in fact. I was sitting above Cuckmere Haven on the South Downs in Sussex, feeling unusually alone in a self-imposed solitude. On that day I became aware of my individuality: I felt and thought differently from other children, differently from members of my family, differently from my peers. Indeed, I appeared to be different from most people I knew. This was not a shock. More a confirmation of what I already knew. But it startled me in its sheer immensity.

I had always felt “outside” of society. In my youth I imagined I must be an alien life form hatched on some distant star — carried to Earth in some kind of cosmic dust storm. This was before the days of Hollywood’s science fiction blockbusters mind you. In some ways I still see my life as an unending quest to find a way back “inside” — to feeling valued and loved, rather than rejected or, worse still, categorised as some kind of highbrow freak — gifted, but ultimately a loser who toiled in vain to find success, and fought constantly to fit in.

From a very early age I understood that my life’s work would be guided by a compulsion to source and link to values-aligned energy and ideas and to help change the world for good — a world that would be more equitable, resilient, optimistic, cooperative, compassionate, trusting, loving, mindful, empathic, abundant and, yes, even prosperous. My dystopian side yet to fully materialise. Informed by deep study that would come much later.

People expect a futurist (not my label by the way) to be something of a visionary. In truth I am more opportunist than visionary. More sage than prophet. In the few productive years I have left I will be doing whatever it takes to awaken myself and others to a new wisdom — particularly among those who are able to initiate and sustain an evolution of deeper consciousness. I will discover what that entails as opportunities present themselves and I, too, awaken to other alternatives.

I was always excited by the tensions within new ideas, and of transformation through intelligent interaction with others. But by far the deepest motivation for me these days is a dread that my generation has fabricated a materialistic world that is not worth inheriting. A fear that my beautiful, talented children, and their successors, face a future far more forbidding and bleak than the one my own generation was bequeathed through the fiery cauldron of warfare and genocide. In my quietest moments such thoughts weigh me down. Even though as an individual I am not alone in having created our current circumstances, I do feel utterly responsible.

When my life draws to its inevitable end I hope my children will realise that I did my very best to bring about a renaissance; to help imagine and design a world that is intentionally different to the one manifesting today. Utopian ideals of course. But why not? Humans are capable of so much good. Why should we need to hate and fear each other? It makes no sense to me. It never has. It distresses me to think that so many of us are trapped in prisons of our own invention; detentions warped by horror, anger and revulsion, and from which the only escape is by way of forgiveness, compassion, tolerance and cooperation. As it happens, these are the qualities to be found at the heart of every spiritual tradition going back centuries.

Like everyone I have fears and a shadow side I (try to) hide from others. Some people who do not know me well claim that I am a very private person. Quietly enigmatic. Even my kids admit they do not know my full story, although I hope they appreciate me in most other respects.

I do not mean to be guarded. But I live in the future and cannot dwell on, or in, the past. Like every other person on this planet, my path has been littered with a mix of events — some unfortunate and sad, some tragic. Through these events I learned not to be the victim, to avoid lingering bitterness or resentment, and to move on quickly.

For a long time, I rejected psychological solutions to my anxieties and loneliness because I had no intention of wallowing in my memories. I had no desire to “explain” anything in order to alleviate the pain of the moment. I still seek and launch myself into what is “next” without remorse or regret for that which is gone. Within that context I didn’t even feel the need to travel to England to attend my mother’s cremation, knowing that she will always be with me, guiding my journey to the end. Some people are shocked by this revelation. Indeed, my older brother never forgave me.

I suspect the impression of being reserved and unapproachable derives from being brought up in the British public school system. Maintaining a stiff upper lip is more than just a cliché. When I was seven years old I was told every day, several times a day, not to be the person I was. Continuously cajoled to wipe the smirk off my face, it has taken me a lifetime to learn how to smile again. It still feels unnatural. Then, at the age of eight, literally days after losing my father, I received six strokes across the palm of my hand with a cane for not being able to recite the Christian catechism. In that moment I began my quest for alternative beliefs.

I still find it distressing sharing such accounts openly. Perhaps only two or three people know me really well, and that through a rare empathy more than the telling. Upon reflection this “objective” demeanor was probably reinforced by other episodes in my life, including the entire 23 years of my first marriage, where I chose, quite consciously and at times ungraciously, to shoulder my wife’s tribulations in order to rescue a situation, or to preserve a veneer of harmony in our relationship.

I am an inveterate trouble-maker. A stirrer from way back. I can be insufferable! Yet also diligent, individualistic, intolerant at times, intellectual, meticulous, a learner and designer, outspoken, outrageous, systemic, strategic, compositional, aesthetic, fragile, creative, inductive, pedantic, vulnerable, fluid, adaptive, integral, concentrated, intense, thin-skinned, empathetic and deeply emotional. I did not seek to change these things yesterday. Nor do I seek that today. I don’t want counselling or therapy. I am imperfect but whole as I am.

My greatest life test came just fourteen years ago. Within the space of a few months my business collapsed, and I was being sued for breach of contract. My mother had died peacefully at the ripe old age of 97. My only brother was also taken, quite suddenly, immediately followed by one of my closest friends who happened to be the same age as me. I delivered the eulogy at his funeral. That night my partner of nine years standing, the person I loved most in all the world but who had been savagely and unfairly treated by most of my children for reasons only they knew, announced that she had fallen in love with someone in China and was leaving me to be with him.

I was distraught — quite possibly on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I spent the first few hours and days wallowing in self-pity and my misfortune. Events, unforeseen and surprising, rescued me faster than I could possibly have imagined. Without consultation of any kind my personal assistant cancelled my appointments for a month so that I could take time out to recuperate from the losses I had incurred. I was devastated. Furious. But did as I was told. She sent me packing to Bangkok — a city I did not know and had no desire to visit. I met Suna just three days later and moved to Bangkok to be with her within weeks. There was no time to descend into depression. I just went with the flow. It was probably the best decision I ever made. We have hardly been apart since.

I have always lived by what have been described by some as “ultra-socialist” morals and others, less kindly, as an “anarchic” bent. This possibly explains why I have always given my ideas away and never had the urge to own property. The home we designed and occupy in a small village in the far north-east of Thailand is in Suna’s name. In accordance with my Buddhist beliefs I have relatively few possessions, and none of much value. I do not covet material assets.

I have also given away much of the money I earned, channeling it into causes that resonated well with my personal ethos at the time. These days I tend to fret about living too close to the edge — a concern not so much for me as for Suna and her family as well as my children. So, I am much more motivated to generate wealth once again. I must be sure that my loved ones have sufficient for their needs when I am gone. To that end I can be very commercial when needs be, although I never allow this to conflict with my most deeply felt principles. I do not find trade-offs like that acceptable.

My greatest personal impulse is love — love for this planet, for my extended family and friends, for complete strangers who smile at me in the street, and for young people who are creating the future. Sometimes that love spills over. I have been moved to tears on more than one occasion, in the midst of addressing a large group of people, for no other reason than the sheer love for what we share as a human family. My enduring commitment is to devote every ounce of my being to fulfilling my purpose — a promise I made as that 13 year old boy on the Sussex Downs — to live an extraordinary life in being a force for good in this world.