My entry point on the grand timeline has always predated the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Challenger explosion, and Nintendo, but only recently has that made me feel old. In a stroke of folkie Zen, James Taylor once let us know, “The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” Right on and amen and all that, but lost youth has a way of instilling heartache in even the wisest men and women, and so his adage is, like most, easier said (or sang) than the alternative.
Good God, I'm old enough to remember Joe Piscopo. And I don't especially want to remember Joe Piscopo, but his impression of Frank Sinatra on Saturday Night Live has been chiseled on the walls inside my skull, anyway. Had I known at age four or five that my mind was fertile for memories on that night, I probably would have done something more fun or constructive than watching Joe freaking Piscopo fail to amuse me. Maybe I could have drawn a picture of Bugs Bunny or worked on that model car construction kit my grandpa got me. Nope. I'm stuck with Joe Piscopo.
^Look, kids! It's an outdated reference. ^
It's more comical than guilt-inducing for me to consider better memories than the ones I have. But I feel guilty about other things when it's best to forgo the trip. The guilt so redolent at Catholic masses lingers like second-hand smoke. It's a funny religion, but it's designed to make you feel blasphemous when you laugh out loud about it. My family attended mass inside a church which showcased a pretty gruesome sculpture of Jesus suffering on the cross. Blood trickled down his temples and pegs stuck out of his extremities. I thought that was a bit glum and scary. Why not immortalize him as he prayed or healed someone or walked on water like Superman? I've never understood that. There has got to be a happy medium between the tortured Mel Gibson Jesus and the Buddy Christ Jesus from that Kevin Smith movie.
Religious dogma is kooky. The best explanation I've heard for how most of Adam and Eve's descendants lived to exceed the age of 500—as declared in the book of Genesis—came from my 7th grade Catechism teacher.
“Well, they ate a lot of fish back then.”
It's a wonder I still believe in God, but I do. Concerning existence, I believe that something happened instead of nothing due to intent, not accident. I believe in intangibles, and so do you, if you can acknowledge that love, hope, and ideas can't be seen under microscopes or quantified in beakers, either, but they're still vital parts of our lives. I reject the notion that the academic elite are the smartest force at work on this planet. Come on. Entities don't get any more intelligent than...PEOPLE?! Are you shitting me? Atheists think the human construct of logic is the answer to everything, and it isn't. They can draw up thorough and tidy philosophical proofs, but all those proofs are fallible. Nothing we do is perfect, and the same goes for all that we create (especially the ideology). The orbit of the planets around a star in a finely tuned solar system inside a galaxy that is but one of thousands dwelling inside a possibly infinite universe is a different story, though. And when you consider the precise design inate in the cardiovascular and digestive systems of every living thing we know of, well...I downright think atheism is foolish. Haughty, too.
So, for me, the trouble with spirituality is not God; it's the imperfect humans who haughtily believe they can reproduce God's message in a book or a religion designed by humans—which, no offense, is really just another word for fuck-ups.
Admittedly, I'm part of the fuck-up demographic. And how! Yikes. When I was a teenager I made a pact with myself late one night when I couldn't sleep. I forbade myself to find happiness until I became a successful writer and a devoted husband. If I couldn't do what I loved for a living and be with a woman I like and love everyday, I reasoned, this whole ride was going to be awfully cheap and disappointing.
I'm 0-for-2 on that front, and I really can't put into words what a loss that has meant to me so far. There are some melodramatic horror stories about my 20s that I'll have to spell out someday, regarding mental illness and medication and sex and all that juicy stuff, maybe in another book, when I'm ready, when I'm strong enough. It'd kill me to tell the worst of it until I'm comfortable detailing the whole mess. At the moment I just know I've underachieved and it's hard to not be angry about that.
As it is now, the thing I am perhaps most proud of is that I have never once worn a tie-dyed shirt. I'd much rather have the writing career and wife and bump the no-tie-dye triumph down to the bronze medal. 30 marks another decade, at least, and the race/ wrestling match/ pole vault competition/ (whichever bad analogy you prefer) isn't over yet.
The highlight of my 30th birthday occurred early in the evening, when my brother and his wife and two dear friends shared drinks while their kids frolicked on the dance floor. Inspired by the moxie of my friends' young daughter, I climbed up a fifteen foot pole, one that some thought belonged in a firehouse and others in a strip-club, and touched the rafters above. I did that three times that night, but on the first occasion, my nephew was beaming at me, his head tilted up, his smile stretching endlessly. I slid down and he greeted me like an astronaut returning from the moon. When I offered him a high-five, he was quick to oblige, and with conviction. The look of wonderment in his eyes was still fresh, and I hope and pray that he will never lose that. Throughout all the unhappiness and discouragement in much of my adult life, I forgot about how great it feels to let this life enthrall you. My nephew reminded me of that.
There are three lines I've written that could pass for my favorite. The first is: “When we lose control, we're still human, but when we lose faith, we turn into monsters.” Another is: “Sometimes love and hate come from the exact same place. Now ain't that a bitch?” But the one that I will cite in the interest of placing a bow on this disjointed little birthday gift is the one you'll read east of this colon: “We're in this together.” I said that to my baby nephew in “April Fool's Day.” It's not the most original line, I'll confess, but the feeling and the intent are there.
Thanks for reading. You! Sorry if you got to this point with only pained eyeballs to show for it.
How about a more confident conclusion? If you've got nothing but pained eyeballs by now, get a clue. I'm pretty good at this and I look forward to getting better and better.
^Honestly, I'm OK either way.^
Love,
Nick
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