Episodes

Just then, Saint Augustine wandered back into the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. His beach shorts dripped sand on the floor as he sauntered over to us. The venerable Saint had been lying on the beach too long, as his face and neck (left revealed by the V-line of his white Big Dog tank top) were bright red. As he sat down, MP took another bite of his croissant, letting out another orgasmic sequence of sounds. "Ignore him," I said. LN proceeded to fill in SA on our conversation. He listened for a while, seemingly taking it all in as she told him about solitude, and language, and death, and the rest. Then, he excused himself.

After a bit, SA returned with an iced coffee and appeared ready to talk. "You're are right, to a point. All of those experiences--those experiences of finding one's self where their self ends--are solitary. I know firsthand. But, I think there are intermediate states--experiences that stand in between that loss of self, and the mundane everyday dispersion we all know so well. These states parallel death and ecstasy in that language is at least partially suspended, or at least unnecessary.

"Hmmmm, that's good. So good. Oh wow, god that is amazing." MP was enjoying his breakfast once again, and had obviously distracted the poor Saint.

"Please, pay no attention to him." TL said.

"Yes, please continue," I told him.



Gathering himself, he went on. "You see, there are times when you sit with people in mourning--times you enjoy the presence of others after the death of a friend, or a family member, or during some other form of tragedy. There are times when that loss--that hurt--that pain-seeps into the fiber of all of you in a way in which you share it. It is endemic to all of you, in that instance, within that space. The phenomenon has struck you in a way that permeates every thought, every breathe, every passing second. And, in those times, you can catch seconds or moments when you sit with others--silently--and share a space that is secret--one that you couldn't explain or show or introduce to anyone else--even if you wanted to. It isn't death--and it isn't even the complete suspension of language--but it is one of those rare human times where being together doesn't involve speaking to one another."

At this, he took a sip of his coffee and itched his now worsening sun burn.

"But, that isn't all. You can have the same sort of experience for altogether contrary reasons. Think of those times with good friends, maybe before you have to scatter and leave one another to return home or move on with life or what not. Think of the times you sit and share a meal, have some wine, and let the evening pass from sunset to warm summer darkness. Think of how the world floats away--the cares, the worries, the tomorrow--even if just for a moment. Think of the way you laugh so deep you all cease thinking and cease speaking as the laughter invades you. Think of the times you sit, silent, enjoying the few breaths of satisfied existence--in warm air, after good food, among people in the world you don't have to speak to in order to communicate with. It is at those times that selfhood and presence don't have to be solitary, but they are always temporary, and always fleeting. There is no planning either type, no holding onto them, and no formula to create them. They are events that happen to us, together, which fall out of our control. They are events that have us, possess us, and thus reveal ever more clearly that those few breaths of being-together--of Ostian community--are not ours. That is, we are not our-selves--we are always given to ourselves."

"Oh god. Hmmm. Ohhhh. That is good." MP finished his scrambled eggs and bacon.