The Way to Love (Part 1)

I'm re-reading The Way to Love by Anthony de Mello on account of a realization the other day. I'm smart, something my peers, professors, and parents have all admitted, even myself. However, pure intelligence comes at a high cost, that of the soul. By soul, I mean that energy that not only gets a person out of bed in the morning but also instills joy and a sense of purpose. Read it as you will.

This thought train started rolling last week when my friend, who has asked me to write a short musical for him, asked a simple question: Would you like to work with a lyricist? Immediately, the thorns shot up, the mask was back, and I slunk back into the corner with my poisonous jaws at the ready, while inside my lair of instant defense, the worm that already lingered there began to gnaw at me again. With every nibble came the crippling doubts of why I had failed so spectacularly at this one task when I had promised to succeed. All of this took place in the span before I could even form a rational thought, and I sputtered a little, asked instead to work with a musician, and went home feeling miserable. Why? It wasn't that he had said anything with intent to offend or put me down; it was the fact that I had shat out inferior material and presented it as something to be proud of. It was a song, yes, but it was soulless.

To be a skilled craftsman, artist even, a person needs feeling and expression, a message, if you will. What I've noticed in my work as of late is that an idea will spring into my head, and I'll start writing it without thinking it through. I've never completed a full outline, and it shows when the piece falls apart at the end of Act 1, where I lose my patience. By then, I revert back to form: "Stick to the form, and you'll get through it. End your Act 1 at page 15, your midpoint at 60, and your end before 120. It does not matter what you lose in the process." Oftentimes, the idea may not have had an actual meaning behind it, but it seemed cool at the time and became a commitment, for which I held no love or interest, like my past attempts at dating. Without love, there was only commitment, and from that commitment came soulless things, things about which I still hang my head to this day, years after the fact. I commit because I crave success, but even more than I crave success, I crave approval.

The first chapter of the booklet addresses this directly. It asks the reader to compare the feeling of receiving praise with the feeling of taking in a gorgeous sunrise. One is fleeting and leaves a person wanting more, while another is simply satisfaction. Screenwriting, in which I have my degree, demands commitment for success in a business where soul is only as deep as a pocketbook. I have committed myself to writing because I gave up on veterinary medicine. I was afraid to have responsibility for an animal's life, and in the process of giving up that goal, I lost responsibility for my soul.

I entered writing as a relative newcomer. I did not have an all-consuming passion for movies and, honestly, I still don't. In fact, I don't have much passion for anything anymore. At age 23, having not yet produced something I am proud of or that has evoked any kind of meaningful response from anyone else, I have deemed myself a failure and resigned myself to the remainder of my life as a worker ant, occasionally churning out pages to satisfy the writer's group and hopefully one day get noticed and asked by rich men to write soullessly for money. I don't have my money or connections. I never made those real connections in college. I observed the other writers, either with jealousy or resentment, and never took the time to learn from them. Their perceived success on and off the page amounted to my failure, and that was it.

The fact of the matter is, the picture is enormous, and my eyes are glued to a scuff on the frame. It's like when I was in my single-digit years, rock climbing with my dad, and I suddenly let go of the rope and the rock to hang precariously by my dad's belay and examine a particularly fascinating species of lichen. I get called an asshole on occasion on the road for misjudgments of distance. My focus is on the minute. When I write a story, I will occasionally get stuck on a scientific question that will send me on a three-hour internet hunt, which, by the time I finish, I realize I didn't need to take anyway. I'm in a constant state of distraction from a goal I haven't even really made concrete yet.

In summation, my illusion is I need to have fulfilled two things already: to be a genius and to start a socially-condemned relationship and make it work 'til death do us part. It's quite simple, really. Just write something that's not only brilliant, but also that people will read/watch again and again and incorporate into their personal philosophies and cultures that have been shaped by countless other sources for thousands of years like J.K. Rowling. After all, according to Chris Ciccone, you only have to be a genius once. Next up, I have to find a man who genuinely loves and cherishes me tantamount to my own feelings and be at my beck and call yet understanding that I need lots of space. And it needs to happen three years ago!

After a while, you can only lie to yourself for so long. You can only crank out so many half-assed pages and force so many half-baked relationships before the pressure becomes absurd and the victim mentality takes hold. The recoil continues. The nightmares about insufficient sleep end with a clenched jaw, receding gums, and TMJ disorder, among others. And for what? Out of this whole flea-bitten circus, what good does it do anybody? I tell myself I have let go of fame-lust and love-lust, but it is always there, in waking and sleeping, always adding pressure, always reminding me that I'm not doing what I want to be doing, that I'm not where I should be. I should be successful, dammit! Why am I not?

My brother gave me this book for Christmas two years ago. I read it in two days, loved it, and then gradually perverted the message for the subsequent two years. I had to give up all hope of success, all hope of love, and turn instead to the invisible figure of God. After all, isn't that better than everything else? It was better to withdraw from people and shut myself up than to be a part of the clingy world. The thing was, the book never said anything like that. This first chapter, a heavy four pages long, points out that there are fleeting joys and substantial joys, but we are programmed to pursue the fleeting ones. I am at peace when I go for a drive and see the history of California. I tear my hair out writing pages that I don't even like, and I beat down on myself for not being good enough or accomplished enough to talk to someone I find attractive. There is this rancid bitterness that piles up from time to time, because, deep down, I know that what I am pursuing cannot, in and of itself, bring me contentment. I could write a renowned screenplay and then be pushed back into obscurity immediately after. I could start a great relationship and lose him to cancer shortly thereafter. The focus needs to be on something greater. If I'm going to write, it has to be for a reason other than fame. If I'm going to have a relationship, it has to be for something other than sex and sharing insecurities. There needs to be something bigger, and right now, I can't figure out what that bigger thing is. Maybe re-reading this book will help.

Aether

It's easy to forget there are stars when you live in Los Angeles. Let me rephrase. It's easy to forget there are stars in the sky when you live in Los Angeles. Night in the city doesn't really turn dark, just orange.

I ended up spending the weekend at my grandparents' house in southern Utah. The total population of the town where they live is approximately 120. The air is clear, the sounds are soft and natural, and there are stars. There are so many stars.

I stood on the deck for about half an hour, gazing up at them, feeling overcome with an emotion I thought I'd lost: wonder. They're still there. The Milky Way still flows. The Big Dipper still points north to Polaris. There are still tiny, blinking satellites weaving among them like alien ants.

I think that most people, myself included, spend the majority of their lives looking ahead, looking back, or looking around. It's easy to forget to look up, past the glass and rooftops, into the deep vastness, wherein lives the grand Mystery that puts all one's own tiny problems into perspective. There, nestled in the star fields, sits a profound peace that only requires a glance. I have been gone too long. That's a trend I do not wish to continue.

Implanted

It is fitting that I should meet the unexplained en route to a lecture by Dr. Roger Leir via northbound 101. Traffic moved at a crawl, which gave me ample time to observe the heavens. Somewhere between the Silver Lake Boulevard and Vermont exits, I observed a bright light zooming toward the west, much like a helicopter would, only much faster, brighter, and without a single blinking light. I was elated to see so bright a shooting star in the midst of downtown Los Angeles and planned to watch it until it disappeared. It didn't. In fact, it slowed down, turned north, and vanished over the Hollywood Hills over the course of ten seconds.

I'm quick to conclude aliens. This is the second unidentified object I've seen in the skies over LA (the first being a whirligig-shaped object hovering over Montecito Heights in broad daylight). I like to think humans aren't alone in the universe. I like to think we're not the supreme sentience in this universe. Argue for God, argue for Angels, argue for Aliens. There is something out there. As part of my ongoing quest for a belief system, I decided this lecture/service for the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON), held at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Studio City, would be one not to miss.

I will skip the details of how many of the flock bore an uncanny resemblance to aliens themselves to focus on the subject of this talk. Dr. Leir is one of the world's leading researchers into the physical evidence of an extraterrestrial presence, chiefly through the removal of implants. Trained as a podiatrist, he discovered his first implant during surgery on a patient who had come into his office complaining of foot pain. An X-ray revealed something unusual in his foot next to his toe, and on removal, the object was found to be metallic. There were no signs of scarring, nor had there been an immune response. It was just there.

Dr. Leir's lecture detailed two such objects that he had removed recently. The first emitted radio waves between 14.74965 and 17.68658 MHz, but were not radioactive. Its elemental composition was found to be an iron base with traces of Gallium, Germanium, Iridium, and other rare metals; it was meteoric. When removed, it crumbled; when placed into a serum of the patient's blood, it reassembled. An investigation of the patient's home revealed extraordinary anomalies: bromine-enriched soil, a magnetized avocado tree and boat, and an apparent unipole, in which only one magnetic pole is observed.

A scanning electron microscope (SEM) analysis of the second object detailed its structure. When removed, it was in an oil-filled tissue capsule with a high concentration of lauric acid, an antibacterial compound. The group was unable to cut the device with diamond-tipped tools and had to resort to a laser. This was not meteoric, but a collection of microscopic carbon tubes arranged in such a way as to appear organic. For the conceit of an implant, it did not look like a device at all, but in the field of nanotechnology, that's apparently the point.

I list only the facts of the case as they were presented via PowerPoint. Images and statistics were presented; the matter was scientific to its core. How, then, is there still doubt to be had? Why, despite the number of studies done on the subject, is the existence of extraterrestrial life such a moot point in the mainstream community? I assume it is because the three steps of abduction, implantation, and return have not been recorded chronologically; the devil is in the details. On that note, there are plenty of scientists who believe in the Devil, and angels. There is zero physical evidence for the latter beings, but let us compare, for a moment, an angel encounter and an alien encounter.

The Bible is full of angels, delivering messages from above, accompanied by fire. They either visit their subjects at home (the Virgin Mary) or take them away to change them (Moses). People continue to report extraterrestrial beings in their room, or taking them away on high to change them. So why is it that those who have been visited by an angel become saints and leaders, while those who have visited by aliens become shunned and denounced by greater society?

One could argue that aliens are less likely to speak to their abductees, whereas the sole purpose of angels is to speak. One could argue further that aliens do not seem wholly benevolent, whereas an angel is required to be so. Nonetheless, is the veracity of these claims not subject to faith? Isn't the disdain for alien hypotheses the same as that for Galileo's - a resistance to those hypotheses that decrease the cosmic importance of humanity?

I look at Dr. Leir's cases, and I appreciate the evidence for what it is. Though I have not seen the cause but only the effect, the idea of extraterrestrial influence appeals to me, not only because three different psychics have offered the view that I am somehow part alien, but also because I believe their existence would increase the grandeur of "God's" creation far beyond "people." If there are other "people" out there, tracking us, changing us, shaping us, then is that not itself a question of angelic/demonic intervention? Does it prove or disprove God?

My question for Dr. Leir was cut off by the end of the program, but I was able to ask him half of it: If these are truly instances of a higher power implanting these devices into people, what are the consequences of removing them? Wouldn't these beings be angry? Do the objects ever reappear? Do mysterious things happen to you? All he was able to tell me was that his patients had experienced a tremendous sense of freedom after the objects had been removed from them. That was all. Is not the notion of freedom itself, amidst countless causes and stimuli, a matter of faith?

Jesus and the Purple Dinosaur

It's nice having young cousins. They have an uncanny skill to help relive the rambunctious days of yore, whether they're hitting you in the face with a lightsaber, throwing screaming toy monkeys at you, or just clobbering each other. When the family came over for Christmas night dinner, these two reminded me of an old chant I hadn't heard since Kindergarten:

Joy to the world: Barney's dead.
We barbecued his head.
Don't worry 'bout the body;
We flushed it down the potty
And 'round and 'round it goes,
And 'round and 'round it goes,
And 'round and 'round and 'round it goes.

The actual parody has been updated for the times, but I can't, for the life of me, remember who is the modern equivalent of Barney the Dinosaur. Regardless, in my younger years, I and my fellow young men never questioned the content of this song. It was perfectly justifiable to deliver the fate of Benito Mussolini upon Barney the Dinosaur because of one song:


"Love? Eww... Who talks about love? Who gives hugs and kisses? That's disgusting. We may only be seven years old, but we are MEN, and MEN do not do these things! In fact, to show our disdain, we're going to concoct our own version. As MEN. That'll show 'em."

I hate you. You hate me.
Let's gang up and kill Barney.
With a gun to his head
And a knife to his neck,
Pull the trigger; now Barney's dead.

I bring this up because the memory of my young MANHOOD happened to get triggered on the traditional birthday of another conveyor of love, who said "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind—this is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments." (Matthew 22:37-40) This fellow, like the purple dinosaur, was murdered by MEN.

Is it natural to choose bread and circuses over the more complicated concept of Love? To this day, I still have a difficult time just saying the word "Love." it has been ingrained in my head that "Love" is the purple dinosaur, that Love is stupid, saccharine, and superfluous, not to mention unMANly. Not only is it difficult to say the word, but it's also impossible for me to demonstrate genuine, unmasked affection, especially through great big hugs and kisses. In order to make them more tolerable, they have to be accompanied by the lust factor. I wonder why this defense mechanism has persisted all this time.

It's not unusual for people to favor bread and circuses to the more complicated sensation of Love. It's the same reason I instantly get defensive when Christians say the name "Jesus." The ideas behind Jesus are simple, yet they feel complicated and intimidating. It is easier—and even more widely promoted among MEN—to embrace the brain-dulling ideas of anger and lust than the challenges of Love, and I have spent many years enamored of both. In the process of despising the dinosaur, I have denied myself the very thing that he preaches.

With the Year of the Rabbit starting soon, the challenge of letting go of my anger and learning to love remains at the top of my priorities. It is terribly difficult to let go of something that has been a part of one's personality since childhood. It will require new sources of support and a new degree of reward and punishment to accomplish in a new year. Once and if, however, it can be accomplished, the change will revolutionize the very foundations of my life. Super-de-duper amen!

So Long, Book of Faces

Whenever I feel the pull toward religion, it's normally for a reason. I guess that's the point of it, right? In any case, this morning I felt the urge to attend a church service with a very good friend of mine. By the end, I was convinced that the divine is still desperately trying to speak with me despite my angry, closed ears.

The subject was Ephesians 4:26-29, on the topic of communication and how not to offend the Holy Spirit. In it, the pastor recounted four ways to keep communication godly, each one affirming the next, most critical step I need to take on my path out of Asperger's. They are:

1. Communicate Verbally
   (Nonverbal communication is so easily misinterpreted.)
2. Communicate Honestly
   (If you can't encourage each other with the truth, your relationship isn't very deep.)
3. Communicate Regularly
   (When you can help it, never go to bed with an unresolved issue.)
4. Communicate Purposefully
   (If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.)

The truth is, at the root of my mania is the fact that I have flouted each and every one of these guidelines. I've hidden for years behind text messages and E-mails, afraid to be without a Backspace Button. I've molded the truth to prevent revealing my true feelings, for fear of a damaged reputation. I often adhere to an intense message quid-pro-quo: when I've sent someone a message, I do not speak to them again until they've responded, for hours, days, weeks, years, ever. Finally, when I communicate, it is largely for the sake of communication itself; I'll start a conversation without necessarily thinking about how I would like to direct it, then get upset when it dissolves into long pauses and sidelong glances.

So I'm taking the first step tonight. I'm deleting my Facebook account. I'm taking an enormous bite out of my dependence on text-based communication and forcing myself to work on actual change and actual relationships. The past has been repeating itself far too much lately, and in order to stop it, I must make a much larger change than I'm accustomed to making. Though I will no longer have access to daily updates and photo albums, I hope that the exchange will be to have an active role in more daily updates and photo albums.

Nietzsche claims many people wait for the call, "that accident which gives the 'permission' to act." I claim no great catalyst. I'm neither having a breakdown, nor moving away, nor suicidal, nor just going away and coming back in order to get attention. This is about rediscovering what is real. This is about rediscovering humanity over machinery. For the first time, I can actually thank the Bible and an unfamiliar church for their support. Sorry, Nietzsche, but that's just the way it is.

He Made It: The Life and Times of the Almighty

I'm hitting the home stretch of Beyond Good and Evil by Friederich Nietzsche, controversial German philosopher who posited that the Almighty has, in fact, kicked the bucket. Now, while one could easily argue that God is Existence and thus cannot not exist, I still must take a pause to consider the life of the scriptural God:

Infancy: God afraid of the dark. Makes nightlight.

Toddlerhood:  God wants to play.  Makes a garden to play in, fully equipped with awesome creatures that He made with His own two hands!

Childhood: God upset that Adam and Eve broke the rules of His game.  Orders them into permanent time-out.

Pre-Teen:  God double-dog-dares Abraham to sacrifice his son, then throws a tantrum because no one else will play by His rules, flooding the world.  God feels kind of bad about this and realizes He doesn't want to lose His friendship with humanity.

Teenage Years: God's going through changes...  He wants to make something of His life. He sets up His own fraternity of priests and prophets- no girls allowed.  In fact, it's more of a gang, prone to rumbles with a Rival's gang.

Late Teens: After a sublime one-night stand, Mary tells God she's pregnant.  Realizing He's about to become a father, God decides it's time to tone down the violence.

Early Adulthood: God revels in His son's earthly success, haunted by memories of Abraham and Isaac. He is devastated when humanity tears His own son apart.

Adulthood: Deeply wounded by this betrayal, God encourages His aging frat brothers to keep His son's memory alive and spread it across the world.

Late Adulthood: God watches His fraternity splinter into thousands of warring factions, each claiming to remember better, each prepared to crush those who remember differently.

Old Age: God finds comfort in the dwindling few who still harbor humility and love.

Humanity loses record of God's voice after Revelation 22:21.

Death?

From the Mountaintop

If anything, I've always considered myself a naturalist. Though denigrated to the root of evil and distraction, to be shunned for what is confined to death and textbook, the natural world holds enough mystery, beauty, and trials to challenge any set of spiritual pagination. I can think of no better example of this than the ascent of a mountain.

Moses ascended a mountain to find God, the Greek pantheon inhabited Mount Olympus, Jesus and Mohammad both preached from the mountaintop, and the gods are said to deposit their treasures atop Mount Kanchenjunga. The mountain peak is a high place, its path long and treacherous; one can battle all elements, hot and cold, moving and still. The path can be deceptive; "just over that ridge" translates to "just over that ridge... and that ridge... and that ridge," and even then it's not impossible to get lost. It can take hours, even days to get from trailhead to peak.

Still, once one touches the summit and looks down upon the people, the trees, the peaks, the clouds, one cannot help but be struck by the grandeur of the world, far greater than any human squabble or plague. It is at the top of the mountain, after the onslaught of obstacles, external and internal, has battered the seeker, that the seeker catches the merest glimpse of the divine hand, uncompressed by dogma or page count. One can revel in it for hours, unfettered, unchallenged, but even then, after this moment of revelry, the seeker, must still navigate a way back down among the clouds, the peaks, the trees, the people.