The Man Who Knows Everything, Part 2
My Head Teacher told me I'd never make anything of myself and the woodwork teacher said much the same thing 'You haven't got the right tools to make anything – in fact you're the biggest tool in my workshop!' At this everyone laughed, including me. He grimaced at me. 'You're not supposed to join in but feel ashamed at your crassness!' he blustered.
'Get your head out of the clouds – unless you want to be an astronomer or a pilot!' Was the sage advice of my science tutor.
'Stop dancing on cloud nine,' the music teacher said to me.
'Wallop!' The gym instructor's shoe advised my ear.
Or is this all imagination? Was I ever really a child? Maybe I was cloned and all these 'memories' are hereditary, from the selves I used to be, will be or could be? It is all too confusing, to be sure of anything. There is just too much going on in my head and not enough in my cranium, to ground me.
A great philosopher once told me that 'must be' thinking leads everybody astray. It is believing you have the answer to a problem and that the solution 'should' work but doesn't. Your mind insists you keep trying, until somebody else with the real answer comes along and switches the light on because they have no belief about how things should be, only how they are. Einstein said much the same thing as did Mrs Baker at number 32, when I was a kid...or did she?
Life is so shallow, so boring at times and this seems to be one of them. I sometimes think that I've found the answer to life, the universe, everything – then it simply slips through my fingers (Funny, that number 42 keeps popping into my mind). Maybe we live in a multiverse and all these characters bouncing around in my head, are me too but based somewhere, some-when else? Who knows? Who cares? Not me today, that's for sure. So life is 'fascinating,' interesting, full of facts? God how I hate them sometimes – 'facts' that is! Maybe that's why doubt creeps into my mind all the time, just to relieve the tedium of certainty – that blank canvas, which is full of things but mentally a desert (No stimulus, no challenge – nothing to take you away from this dusty museum of relegated relics of the mind, carefully stacked, categorised and forgotten).
When I talk to myself, who is this me I speak to? Is it some vast audience of passive receivers, out in the depths of space, so bored out of their minds that they've got nothing better to do with their time, than listen to my ramblings? Maybe it's the cells in my own body, tuning in to the dictates of their giant leader and being sadly disillusioned by their sheer inanity?
'Conscience doth make cowards of us all,' Bert the gardener told me once, which I thought was a bit deep for him. I've noticed that people with big egos, tend to tread on the toes of other people with little egos. They are just so full of themselves that they don'y notice anything but their own reflections. What I believe pain is, is these little voices screaming in unison. I've been walking along, full of myself, when I accidentally step on a snail that was also full of itself, until this happened (Like a hedgehog hit by a lorry, it's now empty of itself – squashed, flattened, insides outside): Crushed shell, crushed ego. Poor snaily-waily! Still, what do I know about fate and the destiny of the universe, in relation to this little fellow's demise? Chaos theory rules or it would, if it could hold a pencil straight.
Hmm. What is that sort of emptiness I feel? That sort of rumbling below the belt of my trousers, calling my attention? What does it mean? What is it trying to tell me? Is that vast, aching, cavernous vacuum, hunger? Should I give in to it and eat something or resist the urge? Is it right that this organ, which is only part of me, should dictate to the whole of this thing I call 'me?'
Oh dear, now what is this? It sort of burns, like acid. Is it acid? If so, what is it doing inside of me? Should I call a doctor or put my fingers down my throat and try to bring it up? No. I remember being cautioned about doing that, if you've drunk battery acid (People on this planet seem to swallow anything – is that why they have a car boot sale, I wonder?). Drink milk – yes that was it! Where do I get milk from? A cow. Where do I find a cow at this time of day? My mind seems to be telling me to open this big, white, humming box. Is it a Tardis? Is there a whole cow inside and if so, do I know how to milk it? Oh dear, all these questions! I need to be decisive. Hello, is anybody in there? If there is I'd like to borrow some milk please – you know that yummy white stuff that comes out of those black and white things with horns. Hello? 'Bang, bang!' (He hits the door and it swings open).
Oh, it's just a fridge, full of cold things, like milk I hope. Are yes, that will do. Pour this white stuff from its plastic container, into this clear container, which I'll call a glass. Oh look, it's turning white too! Must be the milk. I'll raise it towards my head and stick it in this thing that keeps opening and closing, which I'll call my mouth. Now that's better. The burning sensation has stopped but I need something more solid, to stop this rumbling, my stomach is telling me. Should I give into it? My next door neighbour says I shouldn't let anyone else push me around. Is she right? Should I listen to her? The kindly old lady from number 42 says I should let my heart be my guide. Does that mean I shouldn't let my stomach bully me into submission? It's all so complicated – who should I believe? What should I believe? What is the actual truth and what is solely supposition? I wish I knew. One man's truth seems to be another's lie.