“In the beginning there must have been nothing, can something exist if there is nothing? Can beginning exist with nothing there to begin? Maybe that is why, in the beginning was the word, before there word, there was no thing, no beginning. But why was it the word? In the beginning was the word, and the word was god,. Was the beginning the word ‘God‘? Or was the beginning the word, and God, and the word, were together, the same, all inclusive. In the beginning, was what was in the beginning, and it was what it was. Why not, in the beginning was the song, and the song was god. Or, in the beginning was Me, and I was god, and I was with God. What would it mean then? Would it mean anything different? Or would people just think of it differently? The poetry of the bible that has shaped us, is that what we live on? Do we live by words, or the meaning behind them? “
As quiet as they would like to make it, a plane can’t help but be noisy, and Paul watched his fizzing drink flatten it’s self on the vibrations caused by the spinning turbines outside. The ice in the cup was catching what bubbles it could but they could not hold many before they lost their grip and the carbon gases shot up to the surface.
Paul picked up the cup and drank slowly, like he was taking communion, and felt the buzz slide down his throat, he wondered if soda could be holy, and if burping after a drink could enlighten. He watched inside his body as the bubbles worked deep into his stomach. Could holy bubbles settle his stomach?
Paul quickly downed the rest of the soda, and raised the tray enough to get out of his seat. He quickly moved to the back of the plane, and into the bathroom. Paul was always sick, because when he was nervous, instead of sweating, breathing hard, or shaking, the nervous energy always found it’s way to his stomach. Vibrations of panic that accumulated in Paul’s fragile gut till it shattered, like a singers voice shattering a wine glass. He expected to be in the bathroom a lot in the next 21 hours, he hated planes.
Of course he had expected this, as he sat trying to relax on the toilet seat, Paul considered all the months and years that he had planned for this trip, how long had it been? 5 years? And in 5 years he had never found a reliable cure for the butterflies? But these weren’t really butterflies, these were more like termites, insects that bore into his core, that made him bleed and moan if he even thought about leaving his house. He could feel them gnawing now, ripping at his insides. But there was nothing he could do. At 19 he didn’t want to ask the stewardess for a drink, for fear that she would card him. So he would endure.
Back in his seat, Paul found the ice in his cup had melted, and so drank the cool water while looking to see if drinks were making another round. He was happy to have an aisle seat, but wished he could look out the window and day dream, with out having his gaze interrupted by one of the girls sitting next to him who’s large breasts stuck out far enough to block the widow. This is when Paul wished he was with friends. Not loudly floating over the pacific ocean with nothing to read, and nothing to do for the next 15 hours. His bag filled only with clothes, and his leg cramping, holding it away from the leg of the girl next to him. Unable to sleep from his stomach pain, and unwilling to strike up a conversation with the women beside him, who had been yammering with each other since take off in Chinese.
It was one heck of a decision, for a person who has never left the country, barely his home state, to suddenly vault across the pacific to China. Paul couldn’t speak Chinese, and all he knew about the culture was what he had learned in kungfu class, a class he had attended for long enough to know what he should be doing, and also long enough to know he would never be able to do it. But he had gotten very good at understanding broken English from his master, and this, he thought, would serve him well should he find any Chinese people who could speak broken English. A skill that had already served him well with the Chinese flight attendants.
“Would you like another drink sir?” Paul smiled to himself and to the uniformed lady, asking. “could I get a vodka on the rocks?” taking a shot that being over international waters counted for something. “do you have ID?” she asked softly, thoughtfully trying to remember the word ‘ID‘. “oh, no sorry, I don’t have it here, I’ll just have another sprite” Paul covered quickly. She took the plastic bottle and grabbed the cup off his tray filling it again with ice and bubbles. “also one more thing,” Paul quickly added before the young woman rolled on her way. “could you tell me how to say ‘sprite’ in Chinese?” she smiled. “it’s shuway bing” “shoo-way bing?” Paul asked. “heh, close enough“ she said as she rolled on “thank you” Paul called back.
Taking the drink to his lips, again Paul began to wonder, about things. It had never been clear to him why he felt this desire to go to China. Certainly he was an adventurer, he always wanted to do new things, though his stomach often objected. Actually this was one of the first times Paul’s stomach did not win the argument. Paul had always felt an emotional pull to the country, something that drew him to it. Yet despite this interest in China, nothing about China in particular, other than perhaps the martial arts, especially interested him. He never tried to learn the language, didn’t read any books about the culture. Nothing about this place really called to him, yet he felt called all the same. Perhaps it was the mystery it’s self, the distance, and the emptiness that China represented, a blank place in his mind. To fill an empty place as big as China, must be a thrill.
“In the beginning was the meaning, and the meaning was God, and god was with the meaning. Can we change a word, and bring out the meaning better? Why is it the word, and the word was with God. God is the word, and God is with the word. He is it, and beside it, and with it. In the beginning was intention, and God was with the intention, and God was the intention, the meaning, the song, the poetry, the Me. Or maybe, in the beginning was Why, and Why was God. Why was God?”
