september 16, 2001
Last night I spent an entire evening away from a television and any discussions about Tuesday, and retaliation, and loss. I attended a party in Hollywood, with a slew of Emerson alumni, some I knew through comedy troupes, but most through our shared acting classes. And I reconnected. It's easy to take numbers and make shadowy plans; "Yeah, we definitely need to start hanging out." But every party brings me one step closer to remembering where I came from, and why I'm here. I talked up the idea of having a bi-weekly scene study group, to try and get back to those years of progress, and the idea seemed well-received. Not to mention that I have volunteered my time, interest, and dedication to whatever project that group puts on next.
But the real thrill of the night came just before I left, as I played a very rousing game of foosball with a partner I met for the first time at the table. I am no pro, but we took on the house team in a rather long and quite intense match that remained close until the end. It came down to game point for both sides and we barely managed to pull off the victory, but damn if it wasn't the most energetic and unmitigatedly* happy I had been for a very long time.
Then I got a parking ticket. But who cares?
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september 14, 2001
Last night, to escape the incessant coverage, I went over to Andy and Carrie's place in Burbank to toss a football and watch The Simpsons on tape. About five minutes into "A Star is Burns" there is a scene involving Jon Lovitz's Jay "the Critic" Sherman that begins with a pan of New York. And there they were again, animated but unmistakable: the World Trade Center Towers.
The sheer pervasiveness of this tragedy is testament to the terrorists' success in finally getting through to the American public. I can only hope that our citizenry will begin to take notice of our elected officials and their activities, that voter turn-out will dramatically rise in coming elections, and that, as a nation, we can begin to think through the ramifications of our foreign policy.
I have kept quiet on Tuesday's events here mainly because I have oscillated from hatred to hurt, from shock to anger, so many times in the last four days that I had no idea what to say exactly. I managed to articulate just a few of my thoughts over at Gangbang, but those are just pieces of the pie in my head. And to further that metaphor: all I can see is the crust now, I'm not even certain what kind of pie it is. More than any other feeling stemming from these events my overall sensation is one of supreme impotence. I'm too far away to help dig through rubble, too far away to hug Danielle, or my mother, or Rabi, I'm just too far away.
I've said this before, as have many others, but I truly believe religion is part of the problem and not the answer. More than any other human ideal, people are willing to die for their religious beliefs, and throughout history more humans have died in the name of one God or another than in any land dispute. Here's another, more direct, reason I fear the religiously minded: rather than judge themselves, they leave the judging up to God. Anyone who lives life seeking passage to an afterlife, is not concentrating on making this world the best of all possible worlds.
It is a shame indeed that only a calamity of this magnitude can bring Americans together, and moreover a bigger shame that it unites us against other humans, some American and obviously those who are not. For millions of years before the birth of our culture, a plague that spread from the agricultural revolution in the Fertile Crescent, humankind lived in autonomous tribes symbiotically with nature. That culture, supported by totalitarian agriculture and mandated by a belief that the world was created for humans to conquer and rule it, is in its death throes. I realize I'm not making a lot of sense right now, at least not in the context of the "Attack on America," but I have become increasingly sensitive to a larger world view in light of Daniel Quinn's literature, which provides amazing context to my belief that religion, more than any other cultural determinant, is to blame for much of society's woes. Religions, by their divine nature, blind people to the possibility that there is more than one way for humans to live, which is precisely why nearly every corner of the world is permeated by Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism , and Buddhism. All these, ostensibly the "major religions," focus your life on Earth as directly responsible for your afterlife, the comfort of thinking your soul is eternal.
And I believe your soul is eternal, but only as characterized by your actions in the here and now, and not in some possibility of Heaven. Your soul will live on in the words you write, the deeds you do, and the compassion you share with all of humanity. If the thought of God comforts you in daily life, that is fine for you, but please don't mistake a book written by humans as a divine plan for the one true way to live. That's why an estimated 6,000 people died Tuesday, because America is percieved as an enemy to the Islamic way of life.
My mother, whose birthday is today, said to me on the phone: "I know you're not an atheist. Deep down I know you still believe in God." And, sadly for her to hear, I do not believe in a God, as outlined in the Bible. I do not believe in a single entity that judges how we live, measuring it against a set of rules. I do believe in a presence inherent in the abundance of life on Earth, the mysticism of wind rifling through wheat, the endless scale of adaptation that evolution proliferates through life on this planet. A concept considered outdated, yet consistent in every way with scientfic knowledge. Life itself is the miracle.
Last night I jotted down a little verse that I felt incapsulated the range of human nature:
There is no saint who ever livedIt may be sloppy prose, but I think there is more to understand about ourselves in those two lines, than in the entirety of this diatribe. And with all that, I still don't feel I've said what I wanted...
that could give more than I could give.
There is no serial killer in the history of mankind,
that was any less human than you or I.
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september 10, 2001
It all happened so quickly, you see, that for a period I hesitated to call it my first kiss. Toward the end of the summer between seventh and eighth grades I attended a party in Carver (the next town over) at the house of my then-"girlfriend," Jen Shepherd. We had met the previous fall when I played Huck Finn in a Middleboro community theater production of "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn," and had maintained a phone-driven relationship over the last ten months. In all that time we only saw each other twice; once to see a movie, and then at the party itself. In fact, it is no exaggeration to suggest the fete was an excuse to get us together. After dancing to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and a few other tunes, a protracted game of Spin-the-Bottle began, and said bottle kept spinning until each pre-ordained couple managed to land on each other. Eventually, Jen spun onto me and we found ourselves escaping to the privacy of the back porch to share our magic moment.
Somewhere between registering the rush of a dozen pairs of sneakered feet, the clatter of a dozen prying faces at every available window, and my inane small talk, I stumbled forward and locked lips in a semi-open-mouthed eternity. However: the surprise of it all, amplified by the strange sensation of a girl's hands on my waist and her lips upon mine, caused my stomach to lurch into my throat, leaving me with a nausea that shook me to the core. About thirty minutes later my father arrived to pick me up, assuming something dreadful had happened given my dour countenance. Nope, just my first kiss, s'all.
For months I associated kissing with an upset stomach, and I understandably wanted none of it. Until, that is, my first "documented" kiss after a dance in the Spring of eighth grade. (The party, and for that matter Jen herself, being in Carver meant I had to contend with friends who disbelieved the aforementioned event had ever happened.) I had been with Kristen* for a little over a month by that point, and this being our first dance "togehter" osculation was a forgone conclusion. This kiss was not only expected of me, but it had been built up so much (mostly by Josh and Ed) that expectaion had attained the level of prophecy.
Before long, the last song began and I knew the time had come to make my move. But the knot of my stomach prevented me from fulfilling my promise. As the lights came up on her disappointed face, I knew I had no choice but to kiss her outside. We walked hand in hand to the safety of the darkness beyond the glaring lights of the portico at PCIS, and into full view of the river of parents idling in their station wagons. Nearby I heard the supportive chortles of my cohorts Josh and Ed as I squared off and faced my greatest challenge. With a preparatory noise that would earn me the dubious nickname "Schlep," our mouths met in the sloppiest declaration two tongues ever had the misfortune to make.
The only good news, aside from any pride I may have gleaned from Ed and Josh's endless chiding, was that I discovered kissing itself did not induce nausea. Which was really quite a breakthrough.
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september 7, 2001
It appears, after two weeks of waiting to hear about my faxed resumes and chanting "job offer, job offer" whenever the phone rings, that I'll need to return to the temp agency grind on Monday. Just as things domestically seem perfect (The Occupation finally ended uncermoniously last Sunday) I'm back to worrying about work, while the money I managed to save for moving into a house quickly dwindles. I force myself to get up around ten every morning, but end up napping almost every afternoon nonetheless. I'm consumed by a lethargy and ambivalence that even I find unsettling. I mean, it's no secret I struggle with an apathy that will prevent any real accomplishment in life, but the past two weeks have been a new low for me; precisely because (until now) I have not felt endangered by my inactivity. I can't seem to write anything when I infrequently feel inclined; I haven't taken a single step toward subsistent acting since I arrived in LA. I'm withering, and apparently content to sleep it off. Like Peter in Office Space, had I my druthers, I would do absolutely nothing at all for the rest of my life. Which is so contrary to the glory hog I was throughout high school and college, I fear someone replaced the real me with some Stepford variant.
Life with Tupper has been filled with cups of hot tea, evening walks around the neighborhood, and lengthy reminiscences about eighth grade adventures in love. An interesting anecdote in my character development: one day at lunch I return from bussing my tray to discover my friend Ed has "taken care of everything" and I am now "going out with" Kristen Lamm, a girl whom I had little interest in at the time. However, when I approached her table to explain the misunderstanding (namely, that Ed was never authorized to speak for me) she, positively glowing, exclaimed, "Oh Andrew, this is great! This is the best birthday present EVER!"
What the hell was I supposed to say to that? I just stood there, mouth agape, and finally stammered "Yeah, okay. Good," and returned to my seat. I ended up going out with her for nearly two months. Two months of daily notes from a girl I couldn't care less about, before I could muster the nerve to tell her it was over (though in retrospect I can't remember if I ever explained that it never actually began).
It has been over four years since I met a girl (correction: an available girl) that made my heart flutter. A girl to waste my hours musing: how she feels, how she tastes, when will we next speak, will I be able to speak? A woman that I would fathom spending an eternity beside. Someone to remind me how simple and beautiful the world can be when I stop dwelling on myself and my sorrows, and start each day in her soft arms. Will I ever have that?
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august 30, 2001
Nearly Forgotten:
Sometime around kindergarten I'd suspect, though it may have been earlier, my brother and I were playing adventure games in the backyard on a gloomy Good Friday. In my house, there is no frivolous use of electricity on Good Friday, as best as I can explain it, because on Good Friday good little Catholics do not watch television, or listen to the radio, or eat anything between meals (on a day when your breakfast and lunch combined were smalelr than dinner). Good little Catholics will also have a long moment of silence (which to me, at the time, felt like at least an hour) at three o'clock that afternoon, ostensibly to ponder the ramifications of Christ dying for my sins.
So now you understand the somber mood I was in later that afternoon when, as we played some outdoor farce that involved Matt tying me to a sapling with twelve feet of meticulously re-ravelled string, he mortified me by uttering the invective: "Godammit." The air had been sucked from my lungs. That today, the scariest of all holy days, my brother would choose to violate one of the Ten Commandments, of which I was quite well-acquainted by then.
I stammered, "You just took the Lord's name in vain."
"No I didn't, that's when you say that you're God."
"Nuh-uh, I think it means when you say what you said, or when you say 'Jesus Christ,' but you mean it like a swear word," I said confidently, though nervous. Then I continued, "I'm gonna tell mom."
I was off in a flash, trailing lengths of string behind, because I knew it would not do to allow Matthew to make a persuasive counter argument. I rushed into the kitchen far enough of ahead of Matt for him to wish he hadn't chased me at all. Though he pleaded ignorance of the matter, a swear of that caliber deserved a good long suck on a bar of soap.
Anyway, I've always felt sorry for tattling like that, Matt. I didn't learn to use information as blackmail to extort chores out of you until later.
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august 25, 2001
Someday I shall have to explain to my seven year old daughter and my four year old son why I choose to eat my peanut butter and grape jam sandwiches like a toddler. I carefully peel apart sections at a time, licking the sticky peanut butter lackadaisically from my right hand, while the jam-faced portion floats awaiting in my left. And though I'm far too old to cut twice and into squares my sandwich, I quarter it nonetheless and slurp it down.
And I shall tell them, "I eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches this way because that is how they taste best." They need not know it took me nearly fifteen years of dreary lunchtimes to remember how good it used to taste to savor each side singularly.
It occurs to me as I finish my late night snack, that it has been a long time indeed since I even considered the possibility that my future would contain children. And for the most part they're still entirely within the realm of fantasy at the present, lacking both means and application of method.
Still, I fancy myself to be a rather great potential pop. I'd like to tell my children someday how lightning is really the flashbulb of an aliens' camera. And how the greatest single fraud perpetrated on mankind has been the dogmatic reliance on locking up the food. That when your schoolmates call you "weird" then it means your doing something right, something for yourself.
But most of all, I'd probably advise them to beware of epiphanies. They rarely come when you need them, and when they do, it's generally ominous.
Clichés are all true, and they've never been in fashion. Yes, all the good ones are taken. It's true about love at first sight, but she'll never actually see you there (or, he's just going to hurt your feelings in the end). Attraction matters, and so do looks; people are naturally shallow, but it is surmountable. We pursue that which retreats, or was primarily inaccessible.
I can feel my lifetime piling up tonight, ensconcing my skull like a velvet smog, blacking my nostrils and coating my throat. And I wait and see...
...wait and see...
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july 16, 2001
Boy, I suppose I ought to reminisce about my web-namesake's 50th birthday today, but I feel like anything I bothered to dredge up about that book, or my feelings, would just be a bunch of phony sentimental pap. So, why bother?
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