call•me•jonah

I have a real aversion to meeting people. Those first few moments of contact, when bullshitty smiles are worn to prevent misunderstanding, or perhaps to cloud true understanding. Pretend that I’m here to entertain you, to give you a happier Saturday. But what do I know of happy Saturdays. I would describe a happy Saturday as alone in a park or a forest or a mountain with a book or a pen and paper, he said.

Jonah has a real aversion to meeting people. Those first few moments of contact, when bullshitty smiles are worn to prevent misunderstanding, or perhaps to cloud true understanding. Pretend that he’s here to entertain you, to give you a happier Saturday. But what does he know of happy Saturdays. He would describe a happy Saturday as alone in a park or a forest or a mountain with a book or a pen and paper.

I have no stomach for those who will take no risks, he said, who play at only life’s surest games.

I want no part in the race. This rat race of yours, he said.

I choose to drive late at night, when I must drive, after the sun has retreated and the stars claimed their stations above and the sky rendezvous with the earth in the cloak of darkness. And the streetlamps standing rigid like stoic guards of that concrete tunnel into night bid me onward in silence. The steady rhythm of their passing, coupled with the constant whirl of tire and engine bring me closer to the infinite and calm my nerves as I drift deeper into the depths of myself and venture further into the embrace of the night. As I drove, I thought of you, and I thought that I must write.

05.22.07

There are a million things that Jonah wants to say all the time. But he doesn’t. I think he is afraid that people don’t care to hear them. He is certain that his fear makes it so. He knows that his certainty bends reality. So he keeps quiet.

He’s kept quiet for so long about so many things, that they’ve becomes small hills, like grave mounds of thoughts, expressions, joys, fears.

He had the urge last night to hug his grandfather who died last year. It was the first time that he felt the absence of his death. It didn’t matter that he was thousands of miles from his family anyway. It was the realization that he would never hug his grandfather ever again. That that sensation was dead. He lay down in bed and focused on things he remembered until they became almost as vivid as life. His smile, his stoop, his worn arthritic machinist hands, his wink, his limp. When Jonah was little. Real little. Like four maybe. His granddad used to call him his shadow because he would follow him around and watch everything he did. But all too soon Jonah became self-concious of this simple act of homage and stopped doing it. Though for years he still desired to. He remembered these things because he wanted it to hurt.

Memories are beautiful that way aren’t they? That remembering something wonderful can cause pain. For memories are all dead things, absent things. Memories are all ghosts and nothing more. They tell us that what once was now is not.

He wanted to hug someone else’s grandfather. Adopt an old man.

This was an unusual emotion for Jonah. He doesn’t know if other people ever feel this way. As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he wished there was someone he could tell this to.

05.22.07


A time always comes when he unwittingly returns to the path. Wandering off into the brush, he had little intention of coming back, though he knew he one day would. For it is his path. Though he did not choose it. It was chosen for him. Stumbling, lost, throught the wilderness, he finds that the ground under his feet, the curves in the path are familiar. He finds the rock where he stashed his gear and picks up where he left off.

In a way he’d rather you not read this. Cause he wants me to be honest about everything. But my voice is public. I can’t live in a vacuum. Alone. I can’t. When I make things I want people to share them. My drawings, music, photos, writings. Perhaps this is the characteristic of our generation. The first generation reared on the internet. Perhaps I am just a desperate exhibitionist.

In a way I’d rather you not read this. Because I know that I will inevitably bend to your expectations. I am a kite and you are the wind. I’d rather be a rock. But I’m not. So I return to Jonah. Or perhaps he has returned to me. He possesses a certain freedom of action that I lack. And he doesn’t know that you are reading this.

I hadn’t intended to meet back up with Jonah for another 7 months or more. But as fate would have it, our paths have crossed prematurely.

I was riding my bike home from work and I saw him fall. Collapse on the pavement. Huddled like a fetus. I wanted to help him but I was afraid. No, wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that man.

I entered a coffee shop. Too posh and too well lit. I saw him sitting alone reading a book. A book on politics. He was holding a cigarette aloft in his right hand. A long line of ash dangled from the tip. He didn’t see me as I approached.

“Jonah? What are you doing here? It’s been a long time. How are you? You’re smoking now? Life moving too slow for you? What are you reading?”

He smiled and nodded. Flicked the ash in his empty coffee cup and sat his book down.

Just socially, he said.

I realized he wasn’t the same kid I had left back home. Something was different. Something subtle, something underneath.

I'm afraid I have abandonded Jonah for now. I'm teaching English in South Korea. You can read about it here. I'll be back in a year.5. See you then.

Jonah was thinking about calling up a bunch of friends to get dinner at Babes Chicken tonight. It would be great and everyone would have a great time. And laugh about the old days. And be sad and happy at the same time about the future. Many funny and memorable things would happen, things that would make you wish you’d been there. And they’d be out late, drinking and having a good time. They’d come home exhausted. And wish Jonah a safe year and a good life and a Merry Christmas, because they wouldn’t be seeing him for a year.

Then Jonah realized that he was actually thinking about Friends... So instead of calling anyone, he plopped the last four Green Giant™ red potatoes into a pot of boiling water, and set a plate at the empty dinner table.

And I laughed at him.

How unexpected. He was sitting there on the back porch, keeping the dog from whining. Keeping her from running inside and spoiling everyone’s fun with her muddy paws and dripping tongue. He had left his drink inside. He had mixed cranberry and orange and vodka. It looked like dilluted mud. He left it inside because he had to use both hands to lift the dog through the broken screen door. He was sitting on her leash thinking. The day was spent. So much had happened already. He had spent the afternoon eating turkey at his aunt’s house in nowhere East Texas, the evening in Dallas at an art show, and the early morning in Fort Worth listening to music. He had listened to his uncle tell stories of his world travels as they drove into the night, 5 little cousin’s children asleep in the back, he had met four enviable artists, he had listened to Travis Millard talk to him about pitching a television series to Fox, he listened to two friends’ bands perform before two different crowds in two different clubs, he had drunk liquid fire in a wooden chair and listened to a crowd of friends chanting his name, he’d reaquainted himself with old friends, and made a couple new friends. It was almost three a.m.

All this was so much and not enough, so he was sitting outside with the dog. Relishing the cold. Relishing being at a party and being away from the party. There was nobody else outside. People only go outside to piss and smoke. And there weren’t any smokers at the party. The door opened. Jonah did not turn. Two men exited the house.

One pulled up a lawn chair in front of Jonah, the other stood aloof leaning on a pole of the carport. Jonah knew most everyone at the party, but these guys he’d never seen before in his life. They must be friends of Nathan’s. Or maybe frat daddies crashing in on a bumping party. We had gotten a lot of attention. The cops had come by twice.

The sitting one had dark combed hair and a dark complexion and was wearing a black peacoat. He was lighting up a cigarette. The standing one was tall with glasses and had a duckhunting cap on his head. Earflaps and all.

“What’s your name?” The standing one asked, taking the cigarettes.

“Jonah.”

“I’m Mike.”

The sitting one blew a solid stream of smoke out the side of his mouth, “Michael,” and shook my hand.

“Mike and Michael?”

“We like to keep it simple.”

“Y’all friends of Nathan’s?”

“Think I met him once.”

Mike went inside. Jonah called through the open door, “Could you grab my drink?” “The one that looks like coffee?” “That’s the one.”

Michael turned to Jonah, “Have you ever read that book by Hermann...”

His ears peaked, his eyes got wide. “Hesse?” He was one of Jonah’s favorite authors.

“Yeah.”

Mike returned and handed Jonah his odd mixture.

“Yeah, have you read that book Siddhartha?”

So this is how it started. That long conversation spinning derelict into the night. Two strangers with like names. Enter the stage from nowhere. And later disappear likewise to nowhere. Weaving discourse and philosophy. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are surely not dead. Turns out they’re Buddhist.

At a Christian ex-fraternity party near the campus of Texas Christian University. These two fellows suddenly seemed like frogs in fish bowl.

They used words like dig and cat. Like the beats used to. They spoke with intensity and calm. They believed strongly in everything they said. And disputed with one another openly and earnestly the efficacy of the details of their individual journeys. As if the true debate was among themselves and I was just a witness.

“Homeboy doesn’t need to know that yet.”
“Yes he does. He will understand.”
“I’m curious about what you mean by meditative state.”
“Will you let me tell my story?”
“You will confuse him.” To me. “There are many levels of understanding.”
To me. “Are you confused? Are you turned off by what I’m saying?” Jonah shook his head no. “Actually, I’m fascinated.” “See.”
“Your drunk. This is not the time to impart the profound teachings of the Buddha.”

It was Michael who was describing to me his experience receiving a blessing from a Danish Llama. I think Mike was right, Jonah couldn’t understand he could only listen.

The conversation continued deep into the early morning. Deeper into Buddhism. It was the last thing Jonah had expected that night. He thought perhaps they were inebriated Buddhist angels from a Kevin Smith movie. Or wandering souls, popping in and out of parties like electrons.

It would be futile to write a transcript of their conversation. Of words on meditation and Christiandom, of Buddha and kindness and purpose and self. Of reincarnation. Of the three jems. For I did not wholly understand as I listened in the shadows. What is potent is that these words, each one of them, resonated deeply within Jonah’s cage. Each entered his ear and found harmony inside his mind. He will contemplate what was spoken for many days. These words spoken from strangers lips will stay with him for a long time, and return to him when he has long forgotten the faces that uttered them.

And when it was late. Later than late. When the sun threatened to ignite the horizon. When Mike and Michael parted ways with Jonah. Mike smiled big and hugged Jonah, and hugged him again. And Jonah said, Man this is the last thing I had expected, I live right there in the garage and I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to come home tonight.

Mike laughed.
“It’s karma man. It’s karma.”

Labels: buddha, buddhism, christianity, karma, philosophy