If I had my way, any world-changing idea worth its salt would lick the boxes of a long list of interconnected concerns (see Appendix 1 for the entire list). For my money, it would need to address questions such as:
- Is there a meaning to life?
- What is death?
- Is there such a thing as reincarnation?
- Is there an afterlife?
- Is there a God in charge—and what sort of a job does she think she’s doing?
- Does my dear sweet pet have a soul?
- What is the nature of good and evil?
- What is the essence of time?
- Is the universe, like diamonds, forever?
- Is there a ‘right’ religion—one that we’re meant to follow and never ever question?
- How does love fit into the picture? (Were the Beatles right?)
- What is sex for, and is it okay? (Again, see under Beatles.)
- What merit, if any, does there lie in abstaining from alcohol, drugs, meat and tobacco? (Linda? Yoko?)
- Are humans really at the top of the pole?
- What should I, personally, do with my life?
- Do I have an assigned role, or am I free to please myself? Should people act ‘selfishly’, or is it better to devote ourselves to the lives of others?
- Is happiness in itself an admirable goal?
- Is there such a thing as free will?
- Is everything predetermined, or can we change the future?
- Why do wars, poverty, starvation and terrorism exist, and what can we do about them?
- Isn’t it a waste of time and effort to try to save the world?
- If there is a higher power, why doesn’t he, she or it appear to give a damn?
- Does anyone really know what it’s all about, or are we all just floundering in the dark?
- Is there a mountaintop guru that we can approach for help?
- Is it even possible to become enlightened?
- If so, where’s the manual?
O-k-a-y, I don’t deny that this is a formidable set of questions, so is it pie in the sky for me to expect to resolve, not just one of them—enough in itself to induce a person to keep turning (and writing) these pages—but all of them. All those birds killed with a single stone! That would seem to be an unimaginably tall order.
Nevertheless, I am after an idea or meme that is able to explain everything to my utter satisfaction. Yes, I’m asking for the earth; why settle for anything less? Simply put, I want a full and frontal grand solution—logically elegant and overarching—to every philosophical question ever thought of. Goodness, wouldn’t such a monster deserve a suitably grand title? How about: The Theory of Everything?
Nah, that’s been done by a bunch of egghead scientists . . . or at least it’s been attempted. Let me tweak that appellation a little. There, from now on we’ll call it:
The Theory of Everythink.
I used to swear that if there was anything we didn’t need, it’s another ‘ism’. And yet here we stand at that crossroads. The girl at the start of The Hitch-hiker’s Guide to the Universe?—she is me (you get to be Arthur Dent). Stranger things have happened. You’ll recall another young woman in a café scribbling down on serviettes ideas for a series of children’s books. Now look at her—richer than the Queen of England!
In my own restaurant-at-the-end-of-the-universe, middle-age has brought me to an unusual personal perspective. I’ve developed my own take on Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. It’s pretty much unique—truly a case of ‘and now for something completely different’.
And like Thaddeus Golas, Tom Campbell, Ted Kaczynski (the Unabomber) and others, I feel that I owe it to the greater universe to get those thoughts out there, so I hereby devote myself to that mission. For the benefit of all, I promise to make it readily available, and to continue refining, retuning and revising my magnum opus (I’m up to the second edition).
Given that this text is mainly for my own edification, is there any point in sharing it with anyone? In other words, will it be profitable for you, or a waste of time? To help you make up your mind, let me provide an inkling of where this is headed—a kindly teaser, if you like. There follows a brief note of explanation from your well-wishing sponsor.
As mentioned earlier, I consider it my life’s work to tease out the strands of life’s larger questions. The philosophy that I’ve arrived at could be expressed in just one sentence: Life is a single-entity achronological simulacrum. Or, if that’s too much of a mouthful, here it is in a single word—one originally coined by Neale Donald Walsch. It’s . . . wait for it . . . Applorange.
Words have the power to cast spells. Woven into gossamer webs, they can hypnotize their audience into thinking along the same lines as their author. This can happen so subtly that people often don’t think of resisting. But when at last they find themselves suffocating and having to fight loose, they resent having been in such a vulnerable position.
People have urged me to, “Write down your ideas, they are so unique,” but you can never be sure that the next day they won’t ridicule, revile and stone you. Don’t be surprised if they crucify you for thought crime. And if you think that thought crime exists only in Orwell’s 1984, try speaking out against the government in politically incorrect terms. You’ll learn firsthand about the laws against sedition. Or as an educator, proclaim that the holocaust never happened. Your feet will hardly touch the ground on your way off to prison. Audiences are fickle, tricky to deal with, and tough to second guess. It’s a real risk tossing around heretical notions concerning the Meaning of Life.
Because my style of thinking follows on from the type of person that I am, it may be useful if I divulge a little about my personality. That may help you to decide how much credence to give me. Words don’t exist in a vacuum; they are coloured by the character of their user. Consequently, there’s a reason for me to prove myself worthy. Whether I want to or not, I’m going to have to crawl out on that limb.
Though no man is an island, I keep myself a strictly-patrolled peninsula. By that, I mean that I’m semi-permeable to other input. Through reading I’ll happily incorporate ideas from external sources. But I do so very judiciously—and I’d recommend that you apply the same strategy. Tread cautiously. Do allow ideas from foreign sources to pollinate you, but don’t let yourself be genetically modified in the head. It’s a finely-tuned balancing act.
In No Ordinary Genius, David Goodstein tells of getting together with Richard Feynman one evening to read with excitement the manuscript of Jim Watson’s (and Crick’s) The Double Helix, a year before that milestone of a book was published.
“Watson must have been either very lucky or very smart,” remarked Goodstein to Fenman, “because he never knew what anybody else was doing, and yet he still made the crucial discovery.”
Replied Fenman, “That’s what I learned from reading it. I used to know it, and then I forgot it—I have to disregard everybody else, and then I can do my own work.” And so, given that Will? I Am! originated almost exclusively from me, the time might be right to reveal a little about myself (the bare minimum, I promise us both).
I always feel awkward when I’m asked who I am. The conventional response is to name an occupation, as if the activity that brings dollars through the door defines one as a person. Well, that isn't how I see myself. My day job is incidental to who, or what, I am. I place more emphasis on making a life than on making a living.
And yet I wouldn't feel comfortable coming out with the truth either—declaring for example that I’m a seeker. I hate it when people respond, “Whaaat!?” so I tend to 'um' and 'er'. To entrust a stranger or even an acquaintance with a deeper response, and for me to divulge how I relate to the universe, and what I deem to be important in my life, isn't for casual conversation.
It should suffice that English is my mother tongue, and that I can make myself understood. I write competently (if you can ignore my irrepressible wit). I don’t require that you trust me. I don’t care whether you relate to me or not. Both are irrelevant to me. I’ve grown up largely outside the influence of any major religion, so have no vested interest in any dogma or belief system. More than that, you don’t really need to bother yourself with.
Why wonder about whether I’m male or female (or combination thereof)? Surely my physical appearance—height, weight, skin colour and shoe-size—is of no consequence. I’m above the age of consent—of an age, in fact, to have grandchildren. It shouldn’t make a jot of difference whether I’m confined to a wheelchair, or run marathons. I have most of the ‘seven smarts’ and do well in intelligence tests, though have never felt that to be an advantage—the reverse, if anything. You ought not to care a hoot whether I have a steady job or am unemployed. Why would you give a fig about whether I write from a prison cell or via the free Internet access suite at the local library? What does it matter where I hang my hat?
At birth we’re dealt a hand of cards. You stand to gain the greatest personal satisfaction in life when you play it out with skill (retain a trump or two for the end play is my tip of the day). You do that by playing to your strengths. And naturally, your sphere of activity ought to be determined by your inclinations.
My peculiarity is a compulsion to figure out what life is all about. I’m a man after the metaphysical meat in the sandwich. For me, there’s nothing more enjoyable than to engage in philosophical reflection. I want to experience and explore existential enigmas, and thereafter live in accordance with my conclusions. My particular bunch of aptitudes spurs me to ask: What’s it all about (. . . Alfie?).
Internal forces niggle at me to poke into the innards of existence. I desire to fathom the plumbings of the universe in my veins. I derive great joy from that delving. I love a heavy set of tennis for the brain.
My forte isn’t fancy footwork, and I can’t serve, smash, lob or volley to save my soul. The only string to my racquet is insight; I have a gift for grasping the human condition. And the technique that I employ is a certain kind of thinking.
I must confess that I'm suspicious of rhetoric, scientific method, philosophical rumination, religious dogma, emotional manipulation and the like. In my opinion, they’re largely gimmicks. They don’t impress or convince me. Sure, I use logic as and where it’s appropriate—in the right hands it’s a powerful tool—but not exclusively, or even mainly. I mistrust the way people wield it (to a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail). Even common sense doesn’t do it for me.
No, I’m not a linear rational dimwit. Instead, I suspect that I’m a multivariant and multidimensional thinker, which means that I use both hemispheres of my brain together with the brain stem. This gives you balance. It confers the gift of testing your thoughts for distortion, confusion and dishonesty.
How I’d describe it in real terms is that it makes me heft every hypothesis a hundred times before I’m happy. I need to weigh it, toss it around, taste it, test it and try it on for size. In short, I need to fully grok it (thanks, Heinlein, for that term). This requires heaps of window-gazing time. Decades. This probably explains why it has taken so long for my ideas—and for me as a personality—to Victor Mature.
My way of pondering mirrors Stephen Hawking’s movements. You’ve seen how the world champion of slow pokes painstakingly twitches the cheek muscle under his eye. Letters drip until there are enough of them for his voice synthesizer to drone forth. Me too—it’s as if enlightenment dribbles into me drop by hesitating drop (I must lose a lot through evaporation).
So no, I'm not a quick thinker, but I don't think that it’s possible to act in haste and yet be sure of your conclusions. I suggest, therefore, that you don’t hunt me up for some scintillating face-to-face. I wouldn’t measure up. Rapid-fire debate is not my thing.
Anyway, I hadn’t meant to blather on about God, religion and the like. There’s nothing worse for turning people off. Pepper religious words throughout your tome, and potential readers will discard your work in droves (I tell you, I play with fire). If you’re anything like me, you’ll harbor a healthy aversion to religion in any shape, manner or form. If that is so, then please accept my apologies.
However, if I’m to present a meaningful philosophy of life then I can’t in all honesty avoid bumping shoulders with the big boys. Apart from the study of Philosophy—is that quaint subject still taught?—organized religions have more-or-less cornered the market, and so to some extend there’s a need for me to intrude on their patch and bandy swords with the bastards.
As far as religions go, I must be blunt. No more beating about the bush. This may sound shocking, but it has got to be said. Every religion is miles wide of the mark. I tell you, the Jesuses, Mohammeds and Buddhas of this world may have been well-meaning, but they were neophytes.
And in the next few lines I’ll prove it.
Your head is spinning (I can feel the breeze from here). What’s the point of my scrambling your brain with these crazy notions? No one ought to be left dangling like that.
Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m one hundred per cent in agreement, so let me do something about it. What say I ease you down to earth as I wrap things up?
I’ll ask you to turn to the looking glass. For a final time, look into the eyes of the jabberwocky. What do you see?
Do you sense a superbeing? You sense a presence that is greater than just yourself, right? It returns your gaze. It looks through those windows onto the world and finds it pleasing. It is borrowing your eyes, as it borrows them all. It enjoys its own creation through its creatures. Yours is a mansion of a thousand eyes.
A mansion is one thing.
However, a block of flats would be quite another.
As regards your quality of life, the second option is infinitely better. Think about it. If you have a thousand eyes—the compound eye of a fly, say—that doesn’t really expand your universe of experiences and interactions. You’re just knocking about in a huge drafty building. But subdivide it into apartments, and then the Joneses move in. You’ve suddenly got company. A whole neighborhood.
Practically speaking, the whole on its own is not much more than nothing. Getting a relationship going when you’re the only player in the room is rather tricky. Perhaps your only option is to dice and slice yourself into bits and pieces. Then fire each animalcule up with a wee quota of self awareness. Instil into each critter the sense of apartheid, set them loose and watch them go.
Flitting here and there, sampling a little of this and that—this is how the universal set enjoys the show. How passionately everyone plays their part! The ebb and flow occur in deadly earnest. Every creature sees its life for real. It’s really a matter of life and death for everyone while the game is on.
But behind the scenes it’s only cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers.
