watch them stray arrows, cupid

Close Encounters of the Chosen Kind

I live in a fairly quiet neighborhood in a fairly safe town. The thing is, this fairly safe town has been having a higher frequency of robberies lately, so I’ve been a little nervous whenever I see a van I don’t recognize zip up the dead-end road I live on.  Burglars around here have also been known to pose as business people or solicitors, while they knock on a bunch of doors to find out who isn’t home in the middle of the day—prime real estate for theft.

Today, at around 10 AM, I was sitting up in my bed and answering some emails on the computer when the doorbell rang.  I froze mid-sentence and considered my options.  If I got up and answered the door, they—presumably the would-be thieves—would think me more likely to be home during the day, and maybe they’d be less likely to come and victimize my family and I.  But if I did that, I would have to be careful not to open the door too wide, lest they see something inside that’s to their liking.  Or, I could simply not open the door at all, not even yell from behind it; but the danger would be that whoever it was would think they’ve just found an empty house.  For a second, I realize that, like most people, I’d rather have my house robbed while I’m not there.  I don’t know what flavors of characters these people might be, and I’m not exactly dying to put down YouTube to find out.

After a few minutes, though, whoever is outside decides to take to to pounding on the screen door that covers my heavy oak front door.  At this point I decide to get up and go investigate.  Through the peephole, I see a middle-aged man and woman, dressed professionally, and carrying a stack of papers.  They look patient—eerily patient.

Jehovah’s Witnesses.

I grumble and sigh.  No, I don’t want another copy of Watchtower, thank you very much.  No, I don’t want to know your version of “the truth,” though I appreciate your willingness to come share it with me. I watch them for probably thirty seconds through the peephole.  The woman, wearing a dark purple dress and black necklace that looks expensive, raises a bejeweled fist and starts shaking the screen door again.  I think she might actually damage the screen part, which is very hard to put back in once it’s dislodged. Once I realize these people aren’t going away, I have to figure out the fastest way to deflect them—kindly, of course.

I breathe deeply before taking the plunge and opening the door.

“Hi!” the woman says before I can greet them.  Even three feet away, I can smell her perfume, which is churchy but bearable.

“Hi,” I say, my weariness with this whole routine, this dance between prophet and potential convert, quite evident.

“Hi, we’re just stopping by to bring people like yourself the good news,” she continues. I figure this is the beginning of a long spiel, and it must have shown in my face. “We’re trying to be very brief today,” she offers.

I open my mouth to say something, but she holds up a copy of the Watchtower and intervenes with, “Have you seen this before?” It strikes me as odd that her tone is identical to one a mall salesman might use to get me to try some nasty health smoothie.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, sheepishly. “I’ll take one.”

“Only if you’re going to read it,” she says, smiling and holding it back from my extended hand.

At this point I feel like I’m twelve. I’m wondering if I maybe look twelve, not eighteen. I also feel like being a little smart with this lady, which wouldn’t exactly be nice. No, I’m not going to read it, I want to say, I’m going to go use it as fire-starter for a ritual sacrifice, or make paper cranes out of it. Something, anything but reading it.

“Yeah, I’ll read it.” I take the magazine from her. It’s nicely printed, and appears professional. “I’m generally interested in religious literature.”

She ignores my comment and gets on with her pitch. “Would you like to know the truth?” the woman says, like there’s multiple answers to that question.

“Yes, but I—”

“Then read that,” she says, and taps the magazine I hold in my hands.

For a second I’m tempted to cut the cord on this awkward conversation by telling her I’m a Satanist and currently in the middle of building a new altar, just like the one Christine O’Donnell has. I wonder if she’ll know who O’Donnell is, though, so I ditch the joke.

“Yeah, I will.” I turn to close the door.

“Are you a believer in Jesus Christ?”

I stand there and stare at her. I don’t intend to stare, it just happens. This is getting slightly ridiculous. I feel like I’m taking an online quiz where the questions are read aloud to me. I don’t have an answer to her question; there’s no right answer. If I say no, I’m inclined to think I’ll hear pleas to turn away from my own incoming demise, to rescue myself from the fire and brimstone I’m destined to face. If I say yes, then I’m probably opening a door that won’t easily be closed. No pun intended, I think, as I stand in my front door in my pajamas and continue to speak on a deeply personal subject with two complete strangers.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say. I feel I’ve given them a few minutes of painfully uncomfortable speaking time, so it’s my turn.

“Sure,” she says, seeming slightly puzzled by my query.

“You’re a Jehovah’s Witness, correct?”

“Yes,” the woman says, with a subtle hint of pride in her voice. The man nods nobly. “Yes, we are.”

“So, correct me if I’m wrong here, but you guys believe that literally 144,000 people will go to heaven, as the Bible indicates?”

“Of course,” she responds. “Well, that’s only one of our many beliefs. We’re not as simplistic as people like to make us out as. For instance—”

“Well, I’d like to know more about that one, if that’s okay,” I say. “I mean, there are over six billion people in the world. Isn’t 144,000 an awfully tiny number?”

The man and the woman stare at me. The woman’s smile has faded slightly by now.

“Wait,” I say, “aren’t there more than 144,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses? How can all of you go to heaven? Doesn’t that mean that there are millions of devout Jehovah’s Witnesses who won’t make it to paradise?” [Update: the most recent Watch Tower Society figure is about 7.3 million.]

The expression on the woman’s face is one of annoyance and horror. But I give her credit for still being able to smile, even a little.

“Why would I join your religion if it’s like playing the lottery?”

“Like I said before,” she says, firmly, “there is more to our religion than that. Do you—”

“I understand that, but this is a pretty major thing, I think. Going to heaven and all that.”

“Well, yes, but…” she sighs. At this point I know we’re both thinking it would be easier if her and her companion simply ambled up to another less-informed, more willing doorstep.

“And, I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me, but didn’t an editor of the Watch Tower Society predict that Christ’s so-called thousand-year reign would begin in 1925, and then again around 1975?” [Update: Charles Taze Russell, the founder of the Watch Tower Society, made the 1925 prediction, and the 1975 prediction was a result of general consensus.]

The lady frowns and adjusts her fancy black necklace. “I’m sorry,” she concedes, and sighs, “I really don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” I say, even though it’s really not.

“So,” she opines again, looking a bit more hopeful, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you before. Did you say you were a believer in Jesus Christ?”

“Which Jesus are we talking about?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” She chuckles slightly.

“There’s only one Jesus,” the man standing behind her says.

Really? Thanks. Not exactly what I meant. I continue: “There are several versions of him, actually.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” the lady says, her smile twisted upward in one corner, warped into a not-quite-hidden smirk. For a second I think she’s going to launch into another monologue.

“That’s okay,” I say, and smile at her. “I’ll just go and read this now.” I hold up my copy of the Watchtower. “I appreciate it.”

“You seem slightly hostile, or, I mean, offended by our gestures,” she says, managing to sound even more robot-esque than before. “Is there something wrong with us? With what we’re doing?”

Her honestly slightly shocks me, so I respond in turn. “It’s slightly condescending, that’s all,” I say, as kindly as possible. I don’t proffer any other explanation about how deigning to spend your weekday showing up on the doorsteps of random strangers with a “better”explanation as to how they should live their lives and get to “the truth” is offensive. I don’t bring up anything about the other doctrines of Jehovah’s Witnesses that I find problematic. I don’t make a mockery of their misguided, literal interpretation of the Bible. I don’t mention any of the numerous scandals, widely-criticized activities, or false predictions of Jehovah’s Witnesses or their leaders and organizations. Instead I offer briefly, in as few words as possible, how this whole rigmarole comes off to me.

Her face instantly changes. She seems taken aback that I, or anyone, would resist even a conversation about conversion. But I find it hard to believe that she hasn’t had a door slammed in her face before—something even I wouldn’t do.

“Well,” she says, beginning to turn away, “I hope we’ve been of some assistance. I hope you find the truth.”

“You’ve been helpful,” I offer. “I hope you find the truth, too.”

They say nothing. The man waves and they both step off the porch and begin to walk toward the street.

“Have a good one,” I say, really meaning it, and close the door. I’ll read the Watchtower later. I’ve had enough of being saved for one day.

I know because my feet have the scars to show.

Sweat and more sweat.  There’s a certain dignity to all work, no matter how you slice it.  There’s something about the long haul, getting your hands dirty and scraping up your knuckles in the process.  It might be the allure of asking questions you never thought to ask before, digging up unseen parts of yourself and throwing them out there into the cold light. No matter what, the fact is that what you’re doing is part of some larger process at work, one step in an arduous march toward somewhere else and something else.  Toward another place on the map.

But just where, exactly?  For a while it’s been unclear—and it still is.  So why do we do it?  Why do I do it?

Besides school finals coming up, it seems like I’m taking a sort of test for life too.  I’ve learned so much this year, most of it not in school—about myself, about other people, about this world that my infinitesimal tiny brain is trying to wrap itself around.  What good is this convoluted soup of eclectic knowledge and random facts if I can’t crazy-glue it into some semblance of understanding?  So this is what I’m trying to do every day.  And I think I’m making progress, but I’ll have to take a step back and start poking the walls to make sure this isn’t just another house of cards I’m living in.

I don’t have an answer to why or how we keep going when there’s no real end result we can work toward.  I think we do it either because it’s all we know how to do, and maybe because something tells us it’s worth it.  Something—most days I can barely see it, but I think I believe that.  I don’t know where this is all going, but I have to keep on walking.  Because when you’re done with this race, there’s another one ahead of you, waiting for you to step up to the line, bend your knee, and wait for the countdown to grind your feet into the gritty mud.  Welcome to the final stretch, life seems to say.  Just one of many.

The referee raises his hand.  He cocks the pistol, fires the blank.  You start again.

Opening the time capsule.

For the first time in a month I’ve felt okay.  Not okay with what happened, not okay with the way things are looking, not okay with myself.  Just the feeling for the sake of itself, because, truth be told, it’s been far too long.

About a month ago, when I was reading a lot of books on Zen, I remember considering the difference between the relatively tranquil, almost emotionally sterile world of the Zen adept compared to the roller-coaster, up-and-down horror flick the normal anxious person goes through every day, not realizing they could simply get up and walk out of the theater if they wanted it badly enough.

Well, I want it badly enough.  I feel like I’ve seen this movie a hundred times before, and now I’m tripping over soda cans and popcorn containers to get out in time before they play the part I don’t want to see.  Just as I shove the door open, and step into the blinding light of day, the musical score kicks up again, reminds me of what I’ve lost.

But the antidote to raging emotions offered by certain Zen teachers—cold detachment—didn’t really seem all that appealing either.  Sure, it’s comfortable after you get used to it, maybe even easy.  It takes the degree of the burn down a notch.   But fun?   That’s a different story.  So I thought there must be some middle ground.  Maybe you don’t have to choose between having no control over your emotions or becoming a human statue.  Maybe it’s possible to sit back as an observer and experience every emotion for what it is, all the while understanding that you simply don’t have to be sad forever and you simply won’t be happy forever.  So when you’re crushed, realize that it’s going to pass, and it’s a band-aid on the wound.

Simply, simply, simply.  I’m realizing now that philosophy is simply untrue—maybe not untrue, per se, but impractical, almost impossible.  This last month has been one long orgy of indulging in memories, what-ifs, conversations I never had, things I might have said, could have said, never did say.  I stayed up too late and thought too much, with old ghosts chasing me around like I was some old Pac-Man on a fuzzy old arcade screen, except I’d run out of dots to eat, and there wasn’t a chubby eight-year-old shoving quarters into the machine to play again.  This was it.  Game over.

I’ve found that experiencing sadness and happiness is being those things—there’s no other way around it.  If I could say that what I’m going through now is just sadness but maintained that I could step out of it anytime I wanted, then firstly, I wouldn’t be here, and secondly, it wouldn’t be real sadness.  When you’re crushed it feels like the world is sitting on your chest and won’t get up.  There’s no thinking, “Oh, this is only temporary, and because I realize that, my pain is lessened”—not when it actually happens to you.  My emotions aren’t a TV I can turn on and off when I’m bored after school.  My emotions are the TV and so am I.  If I dropped a hundred-pound weight on your foot, it wouldn’t hurt any less because if I said I would take it off in ten seconds instead of twenty.

The thing is, I told people to do this.  I told them to be sad, to be happy, to be frustrated, but to realize it was part of an artificial spectrum, a play of sorts.  I should’ve told them to take it head-on and destroy it all.  But it was so easy to convince them to take the middle way—so clear when I was looking in from outside.  The light was at my back and every choice, every possible outcome, they could make laid out before me in an all-too-obvious master plan.  But when it was my turn to stare at the sun and pick up the pace on a road I hadn’t even had the chance to look down yet, it was a whole different story.  I couldn’t see anything; direction made about as much sense as a spinning compass.

Sometimes I miss her.  I miss every inside joke, every laugh, every late-night conversation, everything we planned we would do but never did.  The sensation that everything is ruined is a scary, crippling, false feeling.  It wraps itself around you and keeps you in bed all day.  It ties your hands behind your back, blindfolds you, and spins you around.

And sometimes, I have enough self-respect to not miss her at all.

But now that the burning sense of absence has started to quell, I’ve decided that enough is enough.  I want to feel passionately about it.  But I can’t anymore, and I definitely shouldn’t.  It’s a trade-off of sorts.  I’m left weighing one hand against the other, a makeshift scale, wondering whether or not it was all worth it.  Now, then.  Before, after.  Heartache, lesson.  I’ve stopped trying to recapture the fleeting feeling that is everything I was chasing after, everything that made life feel perfect.  And the feeling’s stopped trying to recapture me.

Wake up, the sun is rising without you.

At 5:11 AM my eyes open to a ceiling as dark as the sky.  I’m half asleep and half awake, but there’s a sickness in my stomach that reaches all the way down to through the bed and to the floor.  It’s that feeling again.  That one.

Like any other sentient being with the intellectual capacity to understand a fragment of the horrible stuff that goes on in the world, it’s hard not to feel sometimes like the easiest thing to do is to just give up.  To stay in bed and just forget about it all.  Your dreams, your girlfriend, your grocery list, everything you cling to that’s not really there.  And for me, sleep is escape.  Sometimes it’s a good type of escape, but it’s an escape nonetheless.  Real life takes place outside the sheets, and I have to remind myself of that on days like this.

But today, brooding over my cup of black tea before I start my zazen, I have started to feel that no matter how shitty things get, and no matter if your prospects are flickering out like a dim lightbulb, there is always another day that is beautiful in its own sake.  I realize how corny and cliche that sounds, but right now it seems amazingly true.  I’m surprised how long it took me to be able to just let a morning be a morning, and not worry about all of the superficial things that would bother me otherwise. 

Sure, some of my relationships are going down the drain—slipping through my fingers just like I promised they wouldn’t, just like we both promised they wouldn’t—and turning into memories before they’ve even had the chance to really exist.  I’m not sure if life is supposed to feel like you’re watching a rerun of something that hasn’t happened before, but sometimes it does.  

The best thing one can do, I guess, is just get out of bed.  Open the window, let the sun in, and move.  Yogi Berra got it right: This ain’t over till it’s over.  And today has just started.

When sleep is out of reach.

One more voice in the chorus of millions of voices out there.  A angst-ridden scribble of graffiti on the inside of a mall bathroom.  Another hand raised in the back of the classroom begging Pick me, pick me… I know it seems pointless to be writing this, but here I am—a squeaky, insignificant opinion in the sea of cyberspace.  I offer my humblest regards to the Void.

Let me explain what I am trying to do.  This will be a journal—not necessarily a journal in the typical sense, per se, while I’ll just whine to you about my problems or tell you about my boring day, but a journal where I share the thoughts and observations I have throughout the day that you might be able to get something out of.

That being said, I can’t offer you a lot, but I can offer you my honesty.  And the chance that maybe somewhere, someone out there will read this and understand that someone else sees the world in a similar light.  That person will probably never find this blog.  But then again, they might.  Perhaps it is even you.

A little bit about me: I am a teenage boy living in the purgatory that is highly-populated suburban California.  I’m filled with all sorts of stuff.  Eclectic bits of experiential knowledge, wacky off-color humor, war-generation angst, and the secret to getting a flat stomach in seven days and understanding the origin of the universe.  Maybe scratch that last part.

As I write this it’s almost 1 in the morning and I’m still wracked with anxiety.  There are some days where it seems like you are two separate people who want two separate things.  And to make matters worse, what I want is in the middle of those two wrestling selves.  It’s like the two sides of me have got a rope around the waist of what I want and are pulling in two separate directions.  If they both keep going, everything is going to be broken.  Neither can win.  This game of tug-of-war is lethal, and one side of me is going to lose.  I just don’t want both sides of me to.