Often when arguing about political and philosophical discussions, I become so involved in what I perceive to be true that I become lost in a hungry abyss of my own hubris. This can lead to a series of misadventures that usually end with a certain degree of melodrama. But after one particularly heated debate over the interpretation of a worker's strike in Spain, a tear in space and time sprung into existence directly behind me, and I was quickly swallowed up. I assume only a slowly spinning computer chair remained behind as evidence of my abduction.
I suppose any attempt at description is ironic in nature, as on the other side of existence there is but non-existence. How does one seek to define that which, by definition, is indefinable? I cannot offer you a categorization of my sensory experiences, for upon my arrival to that realm, I lost them (for one cannot exist in oblivion, after all), but still, at some level, I was aware.
I was alone. And all was black.
Not that I saw the color, mind, for I had no eyes, or a head in which to house them. But still, I was in a colossal, endless, empty empty black. Whatever that was me in that place quailed at its enormity.
Yet even in that antithesis of everything, I was joined by the voice which ever watches over what I do. That voice which attempts to halt evil and scolds for unintended crimes.
Stop being a pussy, it said.
The same four words that had once pulled me from the depths of depression now yanked my sanity from the slavering jaws of madness; I fear I had been but moments from losing myself, my soul scattered away past the very edges of the universe.
I think, therefore I am.
My self solidified and confident once again, I noticed only after an accidental brush of fingertips on thigh that I had form once more. With muscle memory alone, I raised my hand and waved it before my eyes, but the dark void contained no light to bounce from my pendulum palm to me eyes.
Foul jellies!
Then I realized that only I could give myself eyes, so then, perhaps I could give myself something by which to perceive?
Let there be light!
And I found myself in a pub, or at least, the bar of a pub. A line of dark brown, high-backed stools sat patiently before a rich, dark maple bartop. A shaggy, black-haired man in jeans and a white T-shirt with a large peace sign on the back occupied one of the seats. At the moment, he was turned away from me, facing the petite Japanese woman who was calmly wiping a pint glass behind the counter.
Around the rather abruptly existing bar, the blackness hemmed in; it gave the appearance that the humble pub hung suspended in a vast empty space. There were no walls, and as I turned to gain a panorama of my surroundings, I saw behind me, opposite the bar, a brightly glowing speck. Due to a lack of an object to use for perspective, I was unsure if the speck were tiny and near-at-hand, or unfathomably enormous but a vast distance away.
I sort of waved my hand at it stupidly- to see if it might even be right in front of my face.
"Don't bother," said a warm voice from behind me, "That thing is waaaay out there."
My head jerked around to find the black-haired man looking over his shoulder at me. He had a dark tan complexion, as if Arabic or some variety of middle easterner. His mouth looked accustomed to speaking, and his eyes aggressively glowed a startling white.
"Come have a drink," He said, patting the stool next to him before turning back to where the Japanese woman stood, raising an arm in the universal request for service.
I took the offered seat as the barkeep approached (three steps down the bar), her brown eyes calm yet smiling. My new companion looked at me, offering me to go ahead, so I ordered a beer.
"What beer would you like?" Her voice was melodious, even when occupied by trivialities like the spoken word.
I said, "I want a beer that evokes this place. Something you can lose yourself in."
"You want a Deschutes Abyss," said He of the white eyes, and I decided He would probably know best. After nodding my head in acceptance of the recommendation, the bartender mentioned that it would have been her choice as well.
I decided it was time to meet my drinking companion. Turning towards him and extending my hand; "Hi, my name's Gage."
He turned, regarded me for half-a-second, then took his hand from his glass of red wine to shake mine. "Jesus of Nazareth," he said.
I took his hand as an instinctive part of the social custom, but then held it for a moment in shock. He grinned, his eyes becoming joyful slits of white light and his flashing smile was almost as brilliant due to the contrast with his dark skin and black goatee. "Yes. That one."
I'm not sure how long it took me to close my mouth and say, "Nice to meet you," but it was about then that my beer arrived.
The brew took the color of the vast space that encompassed the bar that was nowhere. It was almost as if a liquid void were held tame by the clear glass. The minute head had a brown hue, reminiscent of other imperial stouts (and oatmeals). A sweet smell of mild licorice malt wafted from it, and I realized that it was the only smell in that bar; previously, it had smelled of neutrality.
The barkeep refilled Jesus' wine, he nodded his thanks and then turned to watch me take my first drink of the brew he had recommended.
The cold, dark liquid started smooth, but it had a thickness to it that was as near chewy as that particular state of matter could get.
Abruptly, a hearty licorice flavor filled my pallet. Now as far as candy goes, I hate red vines, and black licorice makes me gag, but this taste was good; all the impurities of that candy's strange taste were burned away to a state of perfection.
The licorice then gave way to a firm, dark chocolaty deliciousness that lingered a moment before transforming into a final coffee farewell.
"This is my favorite beer-. Ever." I said in admiration.
Jesus smiled knowingly, sipped his wine, spun his stool to face that speck which floated an unknowable distance behind us, and then indicated with a twirl of a raised finger that I should follow suite.
I spun and my eyes were again captured by the enigmatic point.
"This is creation," said the Nazarene, "The moment; the beginning of existence itself. We're going to watch it happen from the best seats in the unformed universe."
I was flabbergasted. "Why? I mean- not that it doesn't sound incredible- but why bring me here? Why show me?"
Jesus chuckled happily, "Why not? This is my Father's great masterpiece of light and sound; of primal forces, which as we speak, do not even exist yet. Surely you can understand an artist's desire to have an audience for the great unveiling? And as for you, it was a simple lottery, and you just happened to be the luckiest guy in creation- congrats."
He pulled a large blunt case from his pocked and picked out a fatty. He lit it, inhaled, let out an involuntary coughing gag in a cloud of smoke, took another puff, and then coughed slightly again as he passed it to me: "Here. It's about to start, and trust me, you want to be blazed for this shit."
We smoked, drank, and laughed till the blunt was but ashes in a tray. Then Jesus- eyes ever-glowing fiercely white- pointed his hand like a gun at the distant speck.
His thumb twitched down.
BANG!
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