tics & stones

Achtung! Content may be offensive to those with no appreciation for the occasional indecorous (but harmless) wisecrack.
Achtung II! A long post.

Religion is not a topic I ever bring up. Should someone open a discussion I’ll have my say, for in fact I have a lot to say. For the most part my experience has been that people are either positively intolerant or deeply convicted in their beliefs. Being of a judicious sign, the balancing scales, I tend not to be too hasty. But with religion it is difficult. It has always felt like that self-righteous cousin one can’t stop staring at on Thanksgiving. As you stare, you think: Ok, I’m trying very hard to find something likable about you. (Like my cousin Sarah who never shared her toys. “It’s not my fault you can’t afford better toys,” she’d say. The only thing I ever liked about her was that she’s half-Jewish, something she had no say in.) But alas, one ends up more interested in the wafts of turkey roast making the stomach roar. Once again, the pleasures of the flesh take precedence.

At the age of 14, fed up with those doe-eyed, buttoned-up Mormons harassing me on the street like urchins, I decided I would read the Christian bible in full. (Just so I could have something to say other than, Hey Buddy, you’re blocking my way.) I read the bible four times as if it were my favourite book⎯⎯one of those unputdownables. It was not. But by the third go I was rooting for Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego as they defied King Nebuchadnezzar. I worried a great deal over Joseph. If anyone ever earned their prophetic stripes, it was he. Though, later I would find Thomas Mann’s interpretation far more compelling. As for David, when God told him he could not build the temple because his hands had known too much blood, I was genuinely heartbroken. Solomon was different. Solomon and I were on the same page. He had chosen wisdom over wealth & fame. Solomon was tall, Mediterranean-kissed, (from all his divine ruminations whilst outdoors) and he had Semitic curls like mine. While none of these features are exactly seductive, I was sure Solomon was a first rate dream-beau.

As stated in the previous post, God’s reply to Moses in Exodus, I AM THAT I AM, in my opinion is the most powerful ever made. But that is not what I told those blonde, blue-eyed Mormons.

First of all, I wanted to wipe that robotic veneer off their faces. You know, the Tom Cruise look which says: I’m so calm I look possessed. But I didn’t want to be too mean because I figured they each had like thirty mothers. And we all know one is plenty. One is a lifetime in therapy. And a lifetime in therapy in New York means watching your psychiatrist come in weekly with a new pair of Manolo Blahniks, which you no less are funding.

But I’m being cynical and I don’t much like myself for it. However, at the age of 14, I was not cynical. I was rage⎯rage incarnate. All I wanted was to lock myself in a large, orderly closet with my flattened Snoopy and wooden dachshund pull-toy (I was a late bloomer) and read. Read, read, read. Though, not the bible. I wanted to read more stories of family disasters like the ones I’d miraculously discovered at the New York Public Library. In one visit, I randomly pulled from the stacks: Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?; Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night; Tennessee Williams’ Suddenly Last Summer; and Truman Capote’s Music for Chameleons. If ever there was a moment when the clouds parted and God found favour in me, it was then. As I devoured each of those doomed stories, I knew they would influence me for the rest of my life.

All of those men were gay, excepting O’Neill who was just a bastard (albeit brilliant). But they were NOT gay writers. They were writers who happened to be gay. Because of their impact on my innocently degenerate 14 year old mind, I too wanted to be gay, hoping that through gayhood, I would be attuned to such depths.

But gayhood, or even non-gayhood is difficult when you’re afraid of human touch. At 14, the thought of it made me want to wash my hands, which I regularly did anyway. Whenever Patrick, my best mate at school, touched my shoulder, I’d punch him in the Solar Plexus, then would wash my hands. When Patrick ended the friendship, I had a lot of time to myself. That’s when the urge to start counting grew inside me like oatmeal gone wrong. I counted the cracks on the walls and I counted my footsteps. However, I never understood why it was 3,065 steps to school, and 3, 003 from school. (Physicists, feel free to explain.)

And now we return to the Mormons.

They were always hustling either whilst on my way to school or on my return. It was problematic because those were peak moments for my counting obsession’s obsession. Should anyone interrupt, I’d have to walk back to the train station (or back home) and begin again. Since I’m a stickler for punctuality, the Mormons’ interruption caused a great deal of stress. It didn’t matter that I knew how many steps my journeys required, I had to hear my inner voice say each number or else something ominous would happen. Something too awful to Name. That was the forced agreement between the Counting Obsession & me.

So imagine having to stop at say, 2,471 (an unremarkable number not easy to remember) to explain to the Mormons that you have no interest in their divisive notion of Salvation. “For how can you tell me Salvation is freedom [note to self: 2,471] when, if I don’t choose it, I’ll go to hell. Is that freedom or fright? As it is, I’m already in one fear-based contract with Counting, do I look like I need another? My insurance won’t cover another fashionista psychiatrist, and I certainly can’t afford to lose my stride. Now if you don’t mind, I have a meticulous path to take.” 2,472, 2,473 . . .