The Conversation
How’s it going, Jack?
All right, I suppose.
Well, that’s good. Something weighing on your mind?
Yeah. I don’t know how to put it. Everything’s poisoned.
What do you mean?
Look, you’ve got all this let’s call it human activity, in general.
Okay.
And then no matter what aspect of that activity you peer into, it’s contaminated by this poison.
What’s the poison, Jack?
I don’t know. There are all these different types. It’s like they branch out and seem to be all these different things. But when you trace them back, they all have the same root, and I can’t really name it. The name’s elusive. It’s different from evil.
And the results of the various, or the various-seeming, shall I say, contaminations, are also very much the same, whatever name you give to their root cause. Wouldn’t you say, Jack?
Yes, that’s right. It’s like everything is made to rot. It’s like a decay that is beyond the decay of death because it sets in during your lifetime. The decay of death is a relief, while this other decay… it’s terrifying.
Of the soul, Jack?
That’s right. Something like that. Or maybe of the heart, or mind, as akin to the soul, but no, I don’t think of the soul itself. Although maybe. What do I know? I’m only guessing. Like anybody else. Just guessing.
(It’s dark in the diner. I barely see the outline of my interlocutor across from me. It’s good to have someone to talk to. He seems like a decent fellow, not aggressive or filled with bad intent. It puts me at ease, but this feeling also makes me anxiously aware that something’s missing. Maybe nothing’s missing; I don’t think anything’s missing, but it feels sharply like it is. My hand begins to search around the table as if looking to catch this thing, whatever it is. I swear, I don’t know what.)
What would you call it, Jack? It seems you were struggling to give it a name just now.
I can’t call it evil – it goes beyond evil. And it goes beyond the spawn of evil, like greed or vanity or malice or contempt or the will to power. It goes farther back. Deeper. Something far more basic, primitive, visceral. It’s almost as if it were worse than evil. When I think about this really bad thing I can’t put a name to, it becomes very frightening.
Human nature, Jack?
(I don’t answer. I don’t want to admit evil is basic to human nature; that it is basic, whereas good is not necessarily basic, but more like a quality only acquired with conscious application of the will over time, if we are so inclined.) Instead, I say:
Something worse than evil, which becomes evil, which becomes that which we name as evil, during our lives as it enters us when we are born, precedes us, stretching out before our beginning to a beginning even farther back; so far back, there may be no beginning to it at all.
And something worse than death, the rot of our lives, the meaning of our individual existence, which crystallizes in some nebulous sphere, not during our lives, but the moment we die, the essence of the impact of our beings on the universe, no matter how infinitesimal, distilled, or concentrated, or summarized, in a jot, an etched line of some sort, a mark on the record, the memory, kept by someone, or by the universe, of how we have lived those lives, becomes clear to someone, to some memory, but never to us, never to our memory. And I think it has been clear to that other memory beyond our memory all along, and our lives have merely confirmed the rightness, the correctness, maybe the infallibility and perfection, of that other memory, regarding us, which already was before we came into being, or before we were brought into being by that other memory, and stretches out far beyond our end, so far beyond, there may be no end to it at all.
And if that’s the case, then that means we are not even subjects of that other memory, which is outside our own, since that other memory remembers us even before we get here to eventually remember ourselves. And that means that our lives, which we give so much meaning to, don’t mean anything at all, not to this universe, not to the memory that fills the universe, or is the universe, unless that memory and that universe gives us a meaning from within itself.
And that means we will only know the meaning of our lives after we are dead. Because any meaning that we give ourselves during our lifetime is false. An illusion. A delusion. A hallucination. A work of our imagination. A fantasy. A fiction. A reality that is not real. We are not living the truth. The truth, whatever it is, is somewhere beyond us, forever out of our reach. Instead, whatever we make out of our existence, it’s a lie.
If you’re existence is a lie, then maybe you don’t exist at all, Jack.
No, I exist.
How do you know?
I don’t know how I know, I just know. What I said it’s what we think we know about ourselves – that’s the lie. It’s the meanings we conjure for our lives to give them sense, to justify our actions, the reasons we give for living – I’m saying it’s all of these that are the lies. And that means any meaning we give ourselves is worthless; it’s nothing but vanity and vexation of spirit. And that’s where we start from – the worst place of all. And if that’s the case, then where are we supposed to go? Where? To a better place? But where is it and how do you get there? Can anyone tell me where I’m supposed to go? Can you tell me where I’m supposed to go? And how do I get there? Can you tell me? Can you tell me?!
(My hand keeps sweeping the table, still looking for something. I make a conscious effort to control it, tell myself it’s not important, get it out of my mind. Shake off the feeling. Shake it off.)
Jack, I think you are already here. Jack, I think you are already where you need to be, whether you meant to be here or not. Wherever you are is where you were meant to be. And where you started from, that’s how it was supposed to be as well. Part of it, the world brought you here – where you started, and where you are now; part of it, you willed it yourself. Jack? What are you looking for, Jack? Is there any way I can help you?
(I take out my handkerchief and wipe my face. I feel for my hat on the seat beside me. It’s there. Somehow, this reassures me. I don’t answer.) Instead, I ask:
How could I have willed my beginning? How – where I started from; my being born?
I don’t know, Jack, but in some sense, you did.
And so my end, too, I suppose. Nothing’s pure. It’s like what I said about everything being poisoned, from beginning to end. You’re only clean before you’re born and after you die – and even for that, you probably have to wait a long, long time. Unless you were meant to be damned, in which case you were damned before your beginning, and you remain damned after your end, and I get the feeling that includes most everybody.
Don’t speak for others, Jack. Don’t bring everyone in on this. It’s just you. Don’t worry about all the others; they’ll take care of themselves. Let the dead bury the dead. But you – you always had the choice of whom to walk with. Then you’d know where to go, and you’d know what you were going there for, and how to get there.
(I don’t answer for a long, long time. I sweep the table with my hand over and over, and after a while, I stop. I fold my hands into my lap and I bow my head, breathing slowly, over the table. After a while more, I find my fedora on my head, and so I take it off again and place it on the seat next to me. I touch it without seeing it, and I feel reassured.) And then I say:
Yeah, you know, it’s like this idea about everything being poisoned; I’ve been watching these films – see?
Films noir, Jack? I know you like them.
Are you Saint Stephan?
What does it matter to you who I am?
Oh, no, no, I was just hoping, I mean, maybe not hoping, but just saying, you know, maybe –
What about the films, Jack? I’m really interested in hearing what you have to say. I can’t really say why I’m so interested, but there’s something about someone else watching films and telling me about them that I like. Let’s just put it that way. So, these films – are they in your mind right now, or did you see them recently, or are they films you saw over time, you know, during your life at different times, and they’re just sort of coming together randomly, or maybe to some purpose you can’t quite put your finger on, in your mind right now?
No, no, I mean, I saw them just now, just before you came, or before I somehow managed to sit here with you, or I sat here and you somehow showed up and began talking to me.
Just now? You mean here? But how is that possible? Or –
No, I mean, yeah, I mean, I saw them here – just now; I –
But, Jack, I don’t see any projector, or screen, although I suppose that wall behind me might do just fine, or computer or any kind or tablet or gadget that you might be able to watch these movies on, not to mention that none of those things would even work here.
No, I saw them all just now, like I said, sort of in front of me, kind of in my mind, but kind of out of it, too, maybe more like a hologram, sort of in front of me, without me being able to define the space.
I see. But how do you know which movies you saw. Maybe you saw them before, and you’ve just been remembering… or maybe you’re making up movies, that look like other movies you’ve seen, in your mind; maybe it’s something the way dreams work, when they take information you already have and recombine and compress it, with you adding something out of your experience and past, or inventing something that never happened from your imagination, resulting in something new, something you’ve created but will hardly remember when you wake up, your memory of it fading with every second until the images from the dream disappear, unless you write them down immediately when you awaken, a commendable discipline that is very difficult to develop and sustain, although that will be a false record, as reconstructed and given a sort of linear sense and logic by your conscious mind, a far cry from what actually took place in the dream, unless we find a way of recording the dreams themse –
No, these were movies, and I know I never saw them before, but I know I saw them just now – well, it had to have been just before I started talking to you; otherwise, how would I remember them? – and I know – although I don’t know how I know – that I saw these movies just the way they were made, with the stars who played in them and everything, and it’s nothing I made up. There was “The Big Combo,” and “Kansas City Confidential,” and “The Stranger,” and “D.O.A.,” and “He Walked by Night.” All poison, I tell you, poison! That thing beyond evil and that thing beyond death; the living rot, the decay. I’m telling you, you never understand movies, I mean really understand them, until you’ve seen a bunch of films noir – five, 10, 20 back-to-back. Maybe because they’re so simple and stripped down and raw, it’s frightening – frightening what they tell us, show us, in black and white, about ourselves, about what’s inside us, the poison, about our souls. Maybe about our souls – maybe. But what’s worse, what’s really terrifying, is that you really don’t begin to understand the poison of life itself until you’ve seen… until you’ve seen…”
Movies, Jack? A bunch of films noir? Can that really be?
Yes… I know it sounds absurd, but yes, yes it can. Shakespeare. Think about Shakespeare.
(At the mention of this name, it is the first time I see the outline of the vague figure before me shift in his seat, as though discomfited.)
I’m really intrigued, Jack. No, really, I am. Can you tell me about them? These movies, that is.
Sure, sure… except…
(My hand sweeps across the table.)
Is there something I can help you with, Jack? Is there something I can get you?
No, there’s nothing. No, no…
Jack Step, March 30, 2014