Episodes

I had a dream the other day, Old Man; you were the main character. I was walking along the boardwalk, when I came upon you laying in the sand. Blood dripped from your abdomen down your stomach, criss crossing your legs. You were in visible pain, but onl sobbing. I expected screams or wails, but you provided only quiet sobs. I came over, and asked you what happened.

"Don't worry about it."

What? You need to get some help, some attention.

"Don't worry about it. The help will come. The help is not what I am worried about."

What?

"Look at me, I am so embarrassed. Look at me, my insides are hanging out everywhere. You know how embarrassing this is?"

What?

"Look. Everyone can see me--everyone can see me spilling out of myself. You know what they can see? Everything that is supposed to be mine; everything that is supposed to be my own--my workings, my functioning, my breathing, my existence. It is all spilling out now. And, because of that, they can see my secret--they can see my shame."

What?

"Everyone can see my secret--I didn't put any of this here, and more than that, I don't know how any of it works. I am not in charge of myself, nor do I control myself. Look at me, a sad old man laying in the sand, his self gushing out of his chest onto the cold, unforgiving concrete of this boardwalk. Look at me, the myth of my autonomy is shattered--I'm nothing but bleeding, pulsating guts; nothing but spilled open and embarrassed."

I took some sea water to try to wash his wounds, but it didn't help. It only hurt more, he said.

I had a dream the other day, Old Man. You were telling me about all kinds of gibberish, and I was playing your game.