Not by the hair of my chinny chin-chin.

There are an unknown number of hairs on my head, even if some hairs that were there before seem no longer to be there, in a thinning patch at the crown. Nevertheless, I cannot count them, they are too numerous, like the stars above my head on clear nights when Orion commands the sky. And if we look at a hair under a microscope, the combinations of cells are higher than one can possibly imagine, if we can imagine we imagine the number of hairs concerned, which is quite colossal and impossible really to comprehend.

And then each hair is connected to a follicle, whose functioning could be the whole life study of an aspiring trichologist, whose work would never come to an end.

And the scalp would be only part of the studies of an endeavouring dermatologist, whose career would also be painstakingly lifelong.

There are no hairs to speak of on my chin, but my right eye has an iris, already photographed many times by American Customs and Immigration Authorities, who relate it to me, and what they know of me, keeping an image of it stored in their computers for future reference, to recognise me again when I pass through their controls again. It is unique, and identifies me as "me", they say, for how long I do not know.

And this is just off the top of my head… there are many more things to say. These things on my head and on my face, even obviating the rest of the body, were given to me by my mummy and daddy, in a genetic capsule that became the physical “me”. And from these progenitors I have the start of my physical being, which reaches back in time to at least 12 people I have personally known who are now already dead and gone – one of whom is that daddy – whereas others are still living, like my mummy. And quite apart from those living, from the deceased ones I have memories and physical mementos like photos that stretch back even further, to those I have never known in the flesh, but only in tales, photos and letters. But there are many of those, and one wonders if modern conservational technology in the form of papers and tapes and photos and heirlooms is really of any use to one. I have even seen photos of great-great-great-uncles and such who look like ancient versions of me or brothers or other family members. This also is inconceivably rich in uncountableness.

And, take, for instance, the fact that I am wearing clothes. The fabric of these clothes comes from certain places, and certain unknown people have worked on them – too many to know how many. Traders have bought and sold these raw materials, semi-manufactured products and finished goods, growing rich, paying debts to others and spending money on food, drink, supplies, utilities, banking commissions, rents and interest payments on loans.

I too carry coins and banknotes in my pocket – no, in a Calvin Klein wallet given to me as a gift (I forget by whom, actually, but that may be another story), made who knows where by who knows who from the hides of cows who grazed in distant pastures in a land run by a government of whom some of the civil servants were rigorously honest whereas others were labelled corrupt – and that legal tender is used by me for spending on food, drink, goods and services I need, with a certain percentage given as charity at some chance point; charity which is sometimes accepted with a smile by an old Rumanian lady who cannot speak and cannot tell her tale of need, but has warm hands when she holds onto a finger or hand extended to give her a coin for bread; bread made in a local bakery where the men awake at 3am and start their fires in industrial ovens made perhaps in Italy, where they like football, which was invented by the English, who conquered India, which produced the Vedanta many millennia ago, when man was young and hopeful, but in need of direction, which philosophy was absorbed by the Babylonians, who captured the Jews and held them in captivity for many years, before they dispersed and were taken to Egypt, where hieroglyphics were used, pyramids were built, and the Nile flowed out every spring to feed the deserts and produce fruit, which we now eat from New Zealand or Colombia, and only sometimes from local market gardens, which are irrigated by canals built by the Moors, who were banished or converted to Christianity under orders from Isabella and Ferdinand, and made to eat pork, slaughtering hogs in front of their houses in La Mancha, where Don Quixote once roamed in search of windmills, which looked like giants, being confused no doubt with the Cyclopean inhabitants of that Greek island where Ulysses wandered in search of the Golden Fleece, and speaking of fleeces, it is now almost shearing time in America, that is, for sheep still producing wool, as the fad nowadays is for hairless sheep with no wool, because wool is cheap and not worth producing since the giant farms in Australia and the American West are the big producers, and anyway, who needs wool if the petroleum from ancient Babylonian lands, I mean, the Middle East, is so abundant still? – at least for the next 30 years – and it’s cheaper to wear synthetic, petroleum-based fabrics for those very same pockets where I carry my now very ageing Calvin Klein wallet (will I get a new gift one day?) with banknotes and plastic credit cards, and where I store my little coins for buses, coffees and some odd charity.

So you see, in one single moment of what we call “time”, it is impossible, although Samuel Beckett and others have tried, to minimalistically concentrate the whole of even one millisecond of our time in the horizontal thinking that is actually writing down thoughts, and this proves, if proof was needed, that thinking is not going to get us anywhere when it comes to perceiving the universe as it is.

And so, this record ends on the same note on which it began, after quite a few minutes of writing, and we are back at the beginning again: the unknown is always greater than the known, and so, let us cease those time-linked thoughts that lead us nowhere, and prefer the experience of direct perception of the ALL. In one split second, in absolute nothingness! Only there can truth be found. There is another form of perception. And it isn’t thinking.