The Space Between

Walking around at night, after the kids were in bed, a man stepped out of the darkness and startled the crap out of me.

 

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "And don't be put off by the trench coat."

 

I was alarmed. Every hair on my body was standing on end. I crouched low, ready to attack. I was already pissed from crap at home - which was why I was going for a walk. It slowly dawned on me that I was glad this crazy fool confronted me. My next thought was about how much trouble I would get into if I hurt this idiot. Immediately proceeding this thought was how my daughters would feel about their dad getting hurt or getting into a fight with a crazy person.

 

"I have these two robots," he said, sitting on the ground. "A boy and a girl. They've been together for years but they don't -- you know, do the boy-girl thing."

 

Since he was sitting on the ground, I was less alarmed. I decided to stay and listen, since, in all honesty, I was afraid of offending him if I walked away. Who knows what he would do then? He would probably act like a crazy person.

 

"This is all metaphor, you understand," he continued, glancing up at me. "The robots are progress, and the boy-girl thing - that's listlessness... Or the lack of it is listlessness. Am I making sense?"

 

"Sure," I lied.

 

"Good. You know, psychoanalysis's great discovery is man-as-speaking-animal.  For this speaking animal, the boy-girl thing has no remedy and has no hope... I should say flesh-flesh, just to be more inclusive. Are you with me?"

 

"Yes, or course," I assured him. I wished desperately that I had brought my phone. I usually do. What are the odds I would forget today?

 

"Things are bad these days," he went on. "But man has always been able to adapt himself to the bad. The only *real* that we can conceive, that we can have access to, is the need for a reason: to give some meaning to things... The difference between the real – what is not going right – and the symbolic, the imaginary – that is, truth – is that the real is the world. To see that the world does not exist, that there is no world... there is just the bad, the what is not going right - that is the only meaning, the only real, the only truth. You see?"

 

"Oh, yeah" I assure him again, having no clue what the hell he is talking about.

 

"So, there is the bad - what is not going right - and there is speech," he said looking piercingly at me. "I can see you're not following... Let's step back a bit. Speech is about flesh-flesh, you know? You know Darwin, sexual selection and all that? It is all the women - they like men who can speak. But speech is... Well, psychoanalysis is the realm of speech, there is no other remedy. Freud explained that the unconscious is not deep as much as it is inaccessible to conscious examination. And that in this unconscious, the speaker is a subject within the subject, transcending the subject. The great strength of psychoanalysis is speech."

 

He paused, searching for comprehension again.

 

"I'm following," I half-lied. It occurred to me that he may be crazy, but the coincidence of his subject matter to my line of thinking was beyond creepy.

 

"It is the world of speech that creates the world of things," he went on, "which initially blur into everything that is in-becoming. Only words give a finished meaning to the essence of things. Without words, nothing would exist.  Only words can engender thought and give it substance. Without language, humanity would never make any forward step in its efforts to understand thought."

 

He stood up suddenly. "You were going for a walk," he said gently. "If you don't mind, I will accompany you.  I am not dangerous. Crazy, maybe, but not dangerous. I just need to talk."

 

"Uh, sure..." I said, not knowing what else to say. I was disappointed at my ability to escape this awkward situation. But, then again, I was curious at what he had to say. "What you say is interesting," I said encouragingly.

 

"Yes, words, words, words - I steal them all," he said, waving his had dismissively. "I read too much and spend too little time with real people."

 

In the street light, I could see that he was quite old - in his seventies, at least.

 

"Young man," he went on, "do not avoid pain and anxiety - they are all that is real. The world does not exist, there is only the word. The word only exists as a result of Darwin's discovery: man as a speaking animal... Yes? And, as Freud discovered, no -- well, animals reproduce... It is all psychoanalysis... This is the root of my confusion: it is all about the bad, what is not going right - the subject matter of psychoanalysis... If God is good and all that is real is the bad, then God is not real and we are the space in between - the pain. It is all suffering."

 

"You're losing me there," I said gently.

 

"Yes, of course. I lost myself there."

A car was driving slowly and suddenly sped up as it approached us. It raced up next to us and stopped.

 

"Lacan!" exclaimed a woman, getting out of the car. "Jacque Lacan! Oh, thank heaven I found you!"

 

"I have to go," Jacque said, turning to me. "Thank you for listening. Enjoy your walk."

 

He turned to the lady, stepping toward the car. "I'm here. I'm here."