The Man Who Knows Everything, Part 3
What's that smell? Is it burning? Must be the toast! Did I put some on? I suppose I must have as I appear be the only person in this pile of bricks people call a house.
Anyway, I'd better butter this bread and plunge it into that deep, dark chasm, beginning at my mouth. Umm – what is that kind of hard but crumbly texture? Must be toast. And all those funny little bits, cascading off it – must be sand. No, can't be that. I remember getting sand in my mouth, during a trip to the seaside. No, it can’t be that – this isn't as tooth-breakingly hard. Crumbs, what is it? Ah, that is it – crumbs!
I remember my first experience of sex as I think they call it (In fact my only experience of it). The girl thought it was wonderful because I went on for hours without 'coming,' I think was the word she used. It was the same when it came to using toilets and not being able to urinate in public (When do I breath in? When do I breath out? What's the trigger point?). It was like all my attention was being drawn outwards because I didn't feel safe enough to relax and let go, unlike in my own environment. Doctor Woods called it performance anxiety, like when in the school play and drying. My school compatriots said it was just because I was a weirdo. Talking about all this makes me feel anxious, like when I had all these strange experiences they call psychic, I believe. Maybe I am a weirdo, a freak that just doesn't fit in with society. My mother (I suppose I must have had one) said I was unique, not a freak (Unless I came out of a test tube). My father replied 'I dunno, lot of flying saucers about nowadays.'
Did I open that door earlier or did it open itself, I'd ask myself as a child. I remember once finding myself downstairs at night and the door into the living room just creaking open. I screamed the house down apparently. My mother said I'd been sleep walking. My dad said it was the cat that pushed the door open but we didn't have a cat. Then there were the times I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. This girl I knew, who was as equally strange as me, said I was seeing ghosts or things from other dimensions. Her mother called her gifted, being a spiritualist herself. Her father just said she'd been dropped on her head as a baby. Funny about fathers and their funny explanations about everything. I went to one of their meetings once (Spiritualists, not fathers). They told me I was very gifted too. I couldn't bear it as I couldn't tell if what I was thinking and feeling, were my thoughts and feelings or someone else's (All these words, ideas and ailments suddenly flooded my body. I'd just have to look at someone to know what they were thinking or tell from the discomfort in my own body, where the illness that plagued them, was based. I couldn't stand the noise in my head and the sensations in my body, so ran out. It's the same with pubs, gigs and discos. Noise inside or outside my head, was more than I could put up with, so being alone was the only thing that saved me or could save me. In an earlier age I might have become a monk, hermit or a shaman. In these enlightened times I've become a recluse. I became Doubting Thomas because Certain John couldn't stand the attention. I freaked out and backed out of life because it drove me crazy. Now I sit here, calm, cool, collected – questioning everything, including my right to exist and the belief that I do...or do I?