Or Perhaps It's The Traveling

The sense maybe of being. Neither here nor there. The sense of being on one’s way but in between anywhere one was or will be. The places defined as home and one’s destination, perhaps. Operational definitions. One’s source, in a sense. And one’s objective.

The sense that one is not oneself. Because of course in between one loses one’s sense of who one was and who one will be at some point in the future. At some point in space. In space-time. In the context of where and when one was and will be.

One is. One definitely is. One senses this. But since one is nowhere in particular, one has become no one in particular. One is, but one is generally. One is only in the general sense of being. One exists, but one is more diffuse than usual. More vague. Suspended, as it were. Beside oneself. Outside oneself. Disconnected from one’s usual relations.

Other. A possibility. A node of potentiality. A transience. A consciousness. A recording device that is on. That is merely passing through. An aficionado of experience. The traveling experience. The getting from here to there.

And so there is this. This extent of the definite. Which is to say. A definiteness that is indefinite in certain respects. That is definite in that one is neither here nor there but is indefinite as to where one is. Precisely. Or who or how. Or what it is. One should be doing. Or thinking. Or feeling. Or being now. Now that one is nowhere.

And what this opens up is a sense that. Well. One might be anyone. Might one not. One might try anything. Who knows what may happen. Who knows what may fit. Who knows which of the congress of possibilities here one might discover as one roots around. Possibilities one might pull on like a new shirt. Like a new suit of clothes.

This kind of. Oh. Utter. And complete. Possibility of abandon. Of complete silence, for example. Of complete and utter solitude and. Well. Much like a mirrored surface. A silvered surface. Faithfully recording. Faithfully reflecting. Silent as the silver on the back of glass.

Pared down to this. Thinned down to this. Purified to this one sense.
And so. So. It is as if one has. Well. Just winked out. Just disappeared from the face of the earth for the time it takes. The period. The extraordinary elastic period. In which one is more like a potentiality. A zygote once again. That mysterious. That small. That possible. Once again.

And in this state, much is in fact likely. Maybe. One might hear the beads delicately ticking against one another. One might see odd lights. And sound becomes muffled in such a state. In a state of air travel. In the terminals and on the jetways and in the planes. And one finds oneself at a great distance from everything. Insulated oddly from the noise, which is now so far away. At a remove from the visible world that might as well unfold at the wrong end of a telescope.

And this is a peculiar state. One is neither in the world nor out of it, exactly. One is neither connected to its events nor disconnected. Suspended as one is on the surface of a substance that is so clear one might see a dime magnified one hundred feet below with one’s naked eyes. And everything. Including one’s own hand. Seems at least that far away.

And then. Now this particular example is in Pittsburgh. The Pittsburgh airport. In between flights as well. In between here and there and now in between flights of fancy. Or fancy, cloud-topping flights. And then there’s a fellow dressed in robes. A guy that is. That seems. Oh. I don’t know. Younger but older. That’s dressed as if for a desert walk. A dusty walk. A walk through Judea perhaps 2,000 years ago. A hairy guy. A bearded guy. Who strolls and sits. Who looks. Who stares as if I am. As if I in fact exist. And am in some way interesting. Who continues to stare to the point. Oh. Well. I get annoyed, okay. And then I look down the row of seats at him to. You know. Warn him off. Back-at-him kind of thing. And what I see. Is. Nothing. No one. A vacancy. A pure absence. Air.

Then I look away. And there he is again. On the periphery of my vision. Again. Down at the end of the row of seats. And so I get up. I stand up and saunter. You know. Like nothing’s happening. Like nothing’s going on. Saunter like a casual traveler down the corridor. Down the long corridor of life. Toward the higher numbered gates. And what do you know. He gets up also. He gets up and walks. Paralleling me. Walking along with me there half a corridor away as we make our way down the concourse to the higher numbered gates.

And as I’m wondering what this is. As I’m walking. As carefully as I might. And am wondering mightily what this may be. Whether I’ve gone. Well. Funny. Funny in the head. As these kinds of thoughts are wandering through my head. There is this. I know this is odd. So excuse me. I don’t mean to sound as loony as I do. There is this communication. He doesn’t speak. But he does communicate. I don’t know how. A sense of peace. Peace, he seems to say. Without the word. With only the feeling. The feeling emanating from him like light maybe from the sun. Just appearing here. Just showing up. And then I’m peaceful. I am profoundly peaceful.

And it makes no sense. None whatsoever. But here it is. We’re walking down the concourse and this guy who isn’t there is radiating peace. And I sit down again. And he sits down again. And we just sit there. Me feeling peaceful. He. Well, I don’t know what he’s feeling. But perhaps he’s feeling peaceful as well. And we just sit here like this. For awhile. Until it’s time to board the plane.