Head Like A Hole (top)
Russ Lane
"I fake it so real am I beyond fake"
-Hole, "Doll Parts"
Wisdom loves strange locales—case in point, the Chic-Fil-A at Wilmington's Independence Mall.
While I was cleaning the grill one evening after closing, my coworker Kelly discussed her latest drama. I don't precisely remember the drama at hand, but I did know the situation didn't involve me. It seemed silly to hold something that didn't affect me against her, so I said, "Well darlin', I don't love you any less."
Kelly stared at me, awestruck.
"Russ, you're a Storybook. You're not real," she said in her syrup-thick Boston accent.
"I'm about as real as anyone else, luv," I replied with an odd laugh, caught off guard by the statement.
She would have none of that. "No, you're from a storybook . . . you're not real."
I let the conversation drop because I wasn't sure whether Kelly's observation was complimentary. In retrospect, however, I don't think Kelly knew how accurate her statement was. I'm a crazed mixture of deliberate and spontaneous, deceptive and honest. But all of this is really a nice way of saying that I am an extraordinarily talented liar.
Two secrets to being a talented liar are as follows: first, you need to be able to convincingly lie to yourself (if you can't fool yourself, who can you fool?); second, you must remember that every good deception has an element of truth. Kelly was right on—I might as well have been in a storybook. But ultimately I didn't care.
After all, I fake it so real I am beyond fake.
"Now here I go again, I see with crystal visions—I keep my visions to myself"
-Stevie Nicks, "Dreams"
There is a third secret to being a good liar, namely, that you must have something to hide, something you need to deny, something you are afraid to tell.
In my case, I was afraid I was losing my mind.
I started seeing and hearing things. You could call them hallucinations if you wish, or fever dreams—Wilmington is very humid in the summer, mind you—and to be honest I'm not sure what I should call them. I only know that they happened.
They started innocently enough. When I was a kid, I would see strange shapes falling through the air, shapes that looked like Legos designed by an avid opiate addict. Sometimes when I waited for sleep, I'd hear old women laughing or scratchy, broken voices calling my name.
The incidents began to pick up in frequency around age sixteen. When I was parking my car one August day, I saw a creature that looked as if he had jumped from the pages of Where the Wild Things Are sitting and laughing in the car beside me. By the time I turned around for a double take, whatever was waiting in that car disappeared.
One Sunday a year later, I was working alone in my parents' office. At the time, the windows were boarded up because some thugs had thrown bricks through them. I saw two small, silhouetted children chasing one another across the covered, broken glass that remained from the event. I didn't turn my eyes away that time; I started following their chase until they disappeared.
To this day, something that looks like television static smothers my vision, and sometimes it seems that I can see a person's "aura."
I rationalized most of those instances out of my mind, since there are a million reasons why such things happen. Sunspots. Exhaustion. Poor, untreated eyesight. Too much nicotine, caffeine, and/or sugar. The excuses were endless.
Strange as it sounds, I didn't start to worry about these incidents until they started interfering with my life. In conversations with friends, I would sometimes "blur," as if I were observing the situations via telescope, viewing myself and those around from a thousand miles away. I couldn't speak or hear very clearly during that moment, which brought forth subsequent feelings of dread and panic—what if I "blurred" and never make it back to the "real world?"
Shortly after these "blurring" incidents began to reoccur, I became more paranoid and anxious. I was walking downtown in Wilmington one afternoon, stopping by my local record shop for the latest albums, and I started crossing the street to the shop's entrance. A blue car appeared out of nowhere, speeding toward me. I was convinced I was going to be run down. It wasn't until I threw myself to the closest sidewalk that I realized that there was never any car. No skid marks, no engine in the distance, just a few curious bystanders wondering why this fool threw himself onto the sidewalk. Knowing nothing better to do, I walked into the store as if nothing happened, bought some CDs, and convinced myself that everything was normal to spite the obvious.
All I ever wanted to be was a good, stable person, and I was slowly beginning to realize that my head was like a hole, with all this crazy stuff leaking out. And I couldn't put any of it back in its place.
I couldn't lie my way through this; the more I tried to block it out of my memory the more fiercely it returned. I wasn't sure whether or not I was losing my mind—all I knew was that I had to cover it up and lie like hell, avoid therapy, refuse to tell anyone, and above all, convince myself that these things weren't happening. As you may have guessed, I didn't pull off this particular lie.
And so I learned the final rule of accomplished liars—know your limits and don't tell lies that are out of your league.
All that these denials accomplished was creating a profound frustration in me, a rage close in spirit to Betty Freidan's tethered housewife. I couldn't hack the first rule of extraordinary lying anymore; this time, I was trying to convince myself of something I knew was false. This time, I knew I was a fake. The "real me" was some crazy f**k, and I refused to let anyone know.
"Look for the signs, you won't have to look far—lead with your spirit and follow, follow your scar"
-Carly Simon, "Scar"
Today, I'm what you might call a Recovering Liar. Old habits die hard, but lately I prefer to not play games with people anymore. Screw fantasy or shadow visions or strange bodiless voices. I want reality, dammit.
Some time has passed since any more "episodes." The last one was in December of '99. I was in bed, reading a book while everyone else in my house was asleep. I suppose I drifted off, but some time after I felt a hand on my shoulder turning me around. I rolled over and saw someone who looked like a mixture of everyone I ever cared about; a light-basked amalgam of old friends and would-be girlfriends. Whoever it was, I just remember them looking at me with concern. He/she said nothing; they just held my chin and looked at me. Then I came back to reality, or woke up.
Although I was probably dreaming, the incident stuck to my bones. After, I felt that everything had finally come full circle. Whoever visited me that night was concerned because I kept defining myself by my old "crazy f**k" identity. That insanity might have been "the real me" years ago, but it was time for me to move beyond the past—it is time for Russ to be someone else.
That's what I gleaned from that last incident, from the entire experience. "Being real" is a process, not a destination; authenticity, like identity, must be something I continually redefine for myself. Unfortunately, I can make no promises that I am any more "for real" than I was before. All I can say is that I try to do what I believe is right, keep moving forward, let the chips fall where they may, and keep trying until I get it right. And that's real enough for me.
Stake Out: Soto Meditation Temple (top)
Roop Mundi
I heard Dwight, the only other English speaker who lives within thirty minutes of me, pull up to my house Sunday morning and decided to meet him outside.
"You look pleasantly excited for it being 6 am on a Sunday morning," he remarked in his Manchester accent.
"Just call me a ray of sunshine," I replied.
I hopped in his car, and the two of us rode to Tom's house. Tom was the one who asked us if we were interested in checking out a Soto Meditation Temple with him. Aside from practicing alone, reading a couple of books, and becoming extremely frustrated, I didn't know much about meditation. But I figured since I was in Japan now, I might as well take advantage of it. Tom had inquired from the San Francisco Zen Society about places close to us where meditation is taught and practiced. They referred him to Nitta Showa Fujimi-san Temple in Saitama, Japan, about two hours away from our homes.
The temple was originally constructed over two hundred years ago, but it was converted into a center for meditation practice and study in 1973. The head monk at the time, Matsushima-san, was a quiet man who was given the responsibility to run a meditation center. He was given little-to-no money, had very little clothing and supplies, and was given one apprentice—a young, cocky student named Miyazawa-san.
In 1984, Matsushima-san died and the responsibility of the temple was left in the hands of Miyazawa-san. He has been dutifully running it ever since. It hasn't exactly flourished, but it is visited by many people daily, and has retained its humble atmosphere and charm.
The three of us live in the mountains of central Japan, roughly three hours north of Tokyo. Dwight and I live in neighboring rice paddy villages, and Tom lives in a slightly larger town about a forty-five-minute drive away. We arrived at Tom's apartment, and the three of us jumped into his car. Armed with his GPS (Global Precision System) navigational computer, we were ready to find this temple. It was a beautifully warm spring day.
On the way to the monastery, we had debates on artificial intelligence and placed small bets on our wits versus the wits of the GPS. The GPS won; after driving in the opposite direction for roughly thirty minutes, we decided to rest our faith in the GPS and let it be our guide.
Discussions in the car now steered away from artificial intelligence, and Tom began to explain to us what we were in store for that day.
"Basically," he began in his high-pitched, nasal British accent, "Soto meditation wants your mind to flow. Do not force anything. Just let your mind be whatever it may be. Concentrate on your breath and let yourself go. We will sit for an hour, and then there is part where we walk in a circle in meditation. Then we sit again and repeat the process two more times. A major part of it is not to have any goal in mind, so try to remember that before we begin."
It sounded easy enough. "So are they going to beat us with a stick if we begin to slouch?" I asked in a light-hearted manner.
"Maybe," answered Tom.
Dwight shot his head around and gasped, "I am driving for three hours to be hit with a stick?"
"Maybe," Tom replied again, somewhat stoically, then proceeded to giggle his Miss Piggy snorting-hiccupping giggle, losing any semblance of stoicism.
The day was moving along, and it was almost 9 am before we even reached the right town. The session was to last from 11 am to 6 pm that day, with a few breaks in between and tea afterwards. If we were going to be on time, we had to find this place quickly. The GPS has every Macdonald's and 7-11 in Japan marked, but no tiny, out-of-the-way centers for meditation practice and study. Go figure. We were back to our wits. This time we stopped and began to ask for directions in our broken Japanese. Between the three of us, we knew enough Japanese to know that "masugo" means straight, "migi" means right, and "hidari" means left. After asking seven different people, we found ourselves in the right neighborhood. With a giant stroke of luck, the temple turned out to be on the first "hidari" we took.
"Hey, we still have forty-five minutes until we are due to be here," Tom called in a proud, I-got-us-here-with-time-to-spare bellow, "Let's get some lunch."
We walked to the closest ramen shop and slurped up our noodles in the traditional, loud, messy, fun, Japanese way. With our bellies full of delicious ramen, we sat around the shop, compared snowboarding injuries, and discussed Nietzsche and Buddhism. Tom took long, slow puffs from his Lark Extra Lights. He knew this would be his last cigarette until after sundown.
We got up, paid our bill, and walked over to the temple. Because we drove south, away from the mountains, the climate was a lot warmer than what any of us were used to. Giant cherry trees hid the small temple from the street. Like most Japanese Buddhist temples, this one had a gateway or shrine. Small, humble, cracking paint, one end reinforced with a piece of old, dirty string. Despite my previous notions that this place was going to be some grand landmark of the town, the small size, camouflage of the many trees, and quietness felt right. We passed through the shrine.
My heart began to beat a little faster, because meditation and most things spiritual have always made me rather nervous. Maybe I just don't trust God.
All around us were beautifully manicured trees and bushes in a Japanese garden like I had seen many times before at many other temples, except this one moved up the slope with the stairs. We walked up the stone steps, gazed at the beautiful pink, purple, and yellow flowers, and watched the birds jump from tree to tree. This did not calm me down. My heart began to race a little faster.
At the top of the stairs we found ourselves standing in front of the temple. Once again, small, humble, perfect. Freshly painted in a light peach colour, the temple did not have the rundown atmosphere of the entrance. With a typical Japanese styled roof, a giant bell hanging from a rope, Japanese styled sliding paper doors, and shoes and slippers neatly aligned outside the front door, there was nothing visually special or different about this place. It looked like a scene from "The Karate Kid: Part II"—you know, what I thought all of Japan would look like.
Off to the right stood what looked like the monk's quarters. For fear of doing something wrong, or walking on some sacred ground, we hesitantly, almost on tiptoe, approached the door to the quarters and quietly knocked. No reply, so Tom slid the paper door open, and the three of us stood there looking in. The quarters were old and minimalist: a kitchen with outdated appliances, an old fan, and a rusty sink (spotlessly clean) in a room to our left; tatami (bamboo) flooring and three futons rolled onto one side in another to our right.
From the far left side of the hallway that connected the two rooms came a man wearing long black robes. He had somewhat darker skin than the average Japanese person and stood at about 5'6" high. His head was shaven completely bald, and he wore large, square-shaped glasses. Miyazawa-san came to us smiling jubilantly, yelling "Konnichiwaaaaaa!" while laughing a loud guttural laugh.
Miyazawa-san spoke no English, but that did not slow him down with us at all. He looked over Dwight and me and asked, in Japanese, if this was our first time practicing Soto meditation. We said it was, and he lit up with excitement. Very rarely did he get first timers. Session was to start in five minutes, but he said that since we had come from so far, they would wait ten minutes and give us a quick training session first. His smile and the way he looked at me tensed me even further. I felt as though he looked at me with hope that I would be his next prodigy. Once again my heartbeat picked up pace.
He led us to the temple. We all took of our shoes and socks and walked in. The four of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder looking at a small table in the center of the room. On the table was a bronze statue of Buddha, some offerings of rice, a few pictures with Buddha and his disciples, some script written in kanji and finally, yes, a three foot long stick made of bamboo. To the right and left of this shrine were two large tatami (bamboo) floors surrounded by spotlessly clean, hardwood cherry floors. The room was encased in sliding paper windows, lit only by a small golden lamp that hung from the center of the ceiling and the dullish gray light that poured in from outside. The wall opposite us was decorated with shiny gold, brocade vertical banners with more undecipherable kanji characters. The ceiling was painted with decaying pictures of dragons, monks and images of the Buddha. My heart was still racing.
Each of us diligently followed Miyazawa-san's directions and learned the proper way to enter and exit the temple. First you bow, and then you cover your left fist with the your right palm. Walk to your zafu (prayer mat), bow, turn to the shrine, bow, turn to your zafu, and sit on your knees. Align your zafu, put yourself in Lotus with outstretched palms resting on your knees. Sway from right to left until you find your natural center. Having found that, bring your hands to your belly and make a circle with your thumbs touching above your palms. Keep your head straight and look at a forty-five degree angle downwards. Breathe.
Miyazawa-san giggled and to all of our astonishment said, "Seek enlightenment no! Must no goal! Soto, is no focus. Enlightenment no!" We cheered his effort in English and shared a small laugh. With that, he said we were ready. When it was time for the walking meditation, we would simply stand up, bow, move our zafus in, and walk slowly with left fist in right palm, following him. I thought I could see my heart dancing in my chest.
Five minutes later, the bell rang. We followed Miyazawa-san into the temple and made it to our respective zafus without a flaw. I sat down like everyone else, facing the wall. In front of me was nothing but the gray paper wall. I adjusted my eyes to the forty-five degree angle and focused on one square. I smiled and thought, "Seek enlightenment no, Roop-san." That seemed to calm my heart down.
We sat. And sat. When not pre-occupied by the intense pain in my left knee, most of my thoughts were focused on the time when we could get up and walk around. All of a sudden, I focused on that gray square in front of me. I heard nothing but my breath and the whistling of the trees outside. I felt no pain. Sure, it was there, but I didn't know it was. I found myself just being with my thoughts. I remember feeling at ease with being who I was. I remember feeling my heart slowing down from a frantic run to a mild walk. I remember thinking that the only thing in the world right then was my gray square; that the show I put on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week was only a show—nothing more; that that show was what prevented me from knowing who I really was—constantly trying to please others and thinking that their acceptance would bring me happiness. And that the show is what made my heart race so fast.
All that in a little, gray, paper square? The longer I sat there, the more I began to think about Miyazawa-san. I compared the two us. There I was, looking at a gray square, hoping that something profound would happen and hoping that nothing profound would happen, while he sat behind me, just sitting there. He reminded me of the square I was looking at. It was as though I looked at the square, whereas he looked from the square. What that means I'm not entirely sure, but it made sense to me then and still does now.
We finished the day of meditation with green tea and fruit. Sitting with the three other members, Miyazawa-san told us he was honored that we would drive from such a far distance just to visit his small little temple. We told him we were grateful to be there. He sat there beaming, because he was happy to be in his temple with a full house of people. While drinking green tea and eating apple slices, the seven of us sat on the floor discussing the benefits of meditation. Miyazawa-san threw his arms up in the air and yelled, "SEEK ENLIGHTENMENT NO!!"
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