I can't remember what I'm supposed to write about. It was deep, I know. Something profound. Probably would have changed your lives. Enlightenment would have started right here in Mauritania, spreading (through Peace Corps channels originally, later more conventional media) across the world. I have faith in this, even though I have no idea what it was I promised I would write. I remember clearly the several friendly rounds of vodka-fanta…and somewhat more dimly the promise I made to write something for Delirium. The brilliant theory I was going to explain, however, is sadly lost forever. Was I going to tackle the thermo-dynamics of the soul? Find the fulcrum in the balance of good and evil in the universe? Tell you how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop (and why you should care)? The world may never know.
I would truly like to share whatever great truth it was that inspired me that night, but like a UFO, the drunken conversation descended, carried us all away for a while, then dropped us off in the same place, with no memory of the event--standard operating procedure for drunken conversations. You wake up feeling a little worse for wear, with a vague sentiment that something slightly momentous and slightly invasive happened the night before. Shiftily make eye contact with the other abductees — what do they remember? What are you forgetting? Does anyone know how that vomit got in the bike room? And then the call comes 2 weeks later — "How's that piece for Delirium coming?"
Rather than try to recreate those Deep Thoughts from the drunken conversation, I am going to delve into the root of them. There is a tendency to demonize drunken conversations — I'm going to avoid that. There probably is not a tendency to idealize them, but I'll avoid that too, just in case. They hold lessons; you can examine them in a Freudian light, interpreting them as you would dreams or Rorschach ink blots, cloudy reflections of inner desires and fears. They also hold perils, largely the risk of making a real ass of yourself, but we're all well aware of that and I'm not here to preach. Drunken conversations hold many risks and side-effects; they're not always fun. But in a life where, either because of cultural differences or language difficulties, you seldom express yourself, the conversations cleanse you, flushing out emotions and other strange inner movements grown crusty and barnacled through the stagnant waters of repression. To put it bluntly (in a metaphor I'd never use outside of a Peace Corps publication) drunken conversations are the diarrhea to the emotional constipation imposed by lack of acceptable outlets.
As PCMOs the world over will tell you, until you're in danger of dehydration, diarrhea is the solution, not the problem. The problem starts much earlier, with the amoebas, giardia, bad food…. diarrhea is the body's appropriate response. As a responsible guardian of your body, it is your duty to keep drinking liquids until all the problems are washed away. The same is true for drunken conversations. As with diarrhea, they can be avoided with careful monitoring of everything you ingest. If, however, you are not careful enough, it can strike with absolutely no warning. It's the unreliability that makes it all the more dangerous. You aren't seized by diarrhea every time you drink unfiltered water, and you aren't seized by drunken conversation every time you drink alcohol. Instead, it craftily waits for the best possible moment to possess you with its undeniable urge.
Relieving, embarrassing, at times disturbing and smelly, drunken conversations are always better when they're shared experiences. The convenience of not having to compete for the bathroom, or center of attention, is far outweighed by the awkwardness of every new disclosure emanating from you and you alone. The relief at letting it all out is completely overshadowed by the look in everyone else's eyes; amusement and concern at best, but more often barely disguised disgust. Though on some level you know you are making a scene, a situation, a fool of yourself, your inability to stop leaves you feeling helpless and vulnerable. In contrast, when you are in like company, compassion and understanding is mirrored in all eyes you see. Common victims of the same affliction, common voyagers on the same journey, my stink is your stink, your destination is my destination.
But to be precise, a one-person drunken conversation is actually not even a conversation, just a drunken monologue, usually lying somewhere along the spectrum between heartbreakingly honest and touching to completely pathetic. A true drunken conversation requires at least two individuals and this is where the magic enters. Somewhere in the shared experience arises something transcendental, something that rises above normal understanding. Yes, understanding. Comprehension. Compassion. Everyone say it together, "I love you guys, I mean it, you're the best."
Exacerbating this tendency are the communication and cultural barriers between Peace Corps volunteers and those in their communities. Does anyone in your village really appreciate your confidence that Ben and Jennifer will get back together or share your apprehension about taking the GREs? Do they have any clue what the Chicago Cub's prospects are for next year or how it feels to know your favorite Chinese restaurant closed down during (and possibly because of) your absence. Not likely, and the understanding born of a drunken conversation is all the sweeter for that. We are thirsty for the empathy and unqualified acceptance we seldom find in our day to day lives.
It is perhaps because the bond of comprehension is wrapped so tightly around drunken conversations that they sometimes reach staggering moral and intellectual depths. The riddles of the universe are often beyond the scope of the cognitive mind, but the complexities and the rhythms are all mirrored within our biological frames. Water, protein and glutinous mass that we are, we echo the universe in growth, decay, progression and the occasional spontaneous combustion. Our cognitive process, ordered by societal dictums, is necessarily constrained by the same society. Perhaps the utopian society would lead to the ideal thought mechanisms for solving the universe's problems, but in the absence of such, drunken conversation is our medium for regressing beyond socially-constructed niceties to more bare and basic truths. We say that drunks are out of control, but the key question here is out of whose control? The roar of the alcohol drowns out the whispered admonitions of an artificially-imposed conscience. The desire and ability to follow society's designs are submerged in the inchoate mist of our own selves. Blind and reactive, drunken conversations stumble along unfamiliar cognitive pathways, unsure of direction, destination or motive. There is only the sense that the truth is nearby, leading the conversation on, over rocky and uneven moral and intellectual grounds. At times dancing like will-o-wisps through the marsh, other times great searing blasts of revelation, or slowly and delicately spun like spider webs, answers and reflections of answers rise to the surface of consciousness. These answers, tenuous even at their most substantial, fade away as daylight doubts descend. The truth born of drunken conversations melts quietly, completely and unobtrusively, its passing unnoticed except through the emptiness it leaves. To reword Emily Dickinson, "And thus without a wing, or service of a keel, our drunken conversation makes its light escape into the beautiful."
A final word of warning; do not attempt to follow or capture the drunken conversation. Its truths and its magic will not stand up to the harsh light of day. This is easily verifiable—next time you happen across one, grab a pen and paper and write down every statement dripping with truth and hilarity. Read it the next morning. It won't be funny. It won't be true. It will only be the corpse of a drunken conversation that should have been released hours ago. Like fish, drunken conversations belong in a very special medium, and when removed from that context stop breathing and start stinking. For their dignity and your own, enjoy them in their natural environment, learn from them, and then leaving no footprints, taking nothing with you, gracefully turn your back, pop some ibuprofen and get to work cleaning the vomit out of the bike room.
Disclaimer: The above is conceived of, by and for drunken conversation only. The author does not, of course, wish to suggest drunken conversation as a medium for enlightenment. But if it works, more power to you.
Suggested Reading: Guillaume Apollinaire - Crépuscule from Alcools