Preparation H

Well, that's what my roommate Evan is calling Proposition 8, the amendment to the California State Constitution that would define marriage as between a man and a woman, effectively ending the current state of legalized gay marriage there.

Now, I'm a faithful, somewhat liberal, gay Californian Latter Day Saint living in Utah. Not that that fact lends my thoughts on this matter any more validity than anyone else's. Just that I want people to know where I'm coming from. I am aware that the word "gay" connotes entire lifestyle choices to many readers here, so I will clarify: I am attracted almost solely to other men, but I also believe the Church when it says that to act on homosexual desires is wrong. Many would call me naive in my attempts to remain faithful to my religion, but I am insulted by the notion that people (particularly homosexuals in this instance) are incapable of controlling their impulses and living by a higher moral law. I am very tolerant of others' making the choices from which I intend to abstain. I also know many people sneer at the idea of tolerance because a degree of disapproval inheres therein, but I can think of no other word for how I feel about it. I try to live by a double standard when it comes to ethics and morals: I am very permissive with others, while trying to maintain a behavioral stricture for myself.

I struggled with the Prop 8 issue the moment I heard about the letter from the First Presidency to the members in California. I was disappointed that this issue received so much more attention than other recent moves from the church intended to reach out to its homosexual population, such as the pamphlet entitled "God Loveth His Children," which can be read in the church website. I also wish the government would stay out of the marriage issue altogether, and was saddened to see that the Church was supporting a constitutional amendment that would only serve to further enmesh the legal apparatus with the issue of marriage. I also have many friends (a brother and a best friend included) who are living active gay lifestyles. I love these guys. My best friend is dating a wonderful guy right now, and I would love to see them happy together forever. I also have a very strong sense of live-and-let-live morality; do whatever you want, as long as your actions don't impinge upon my own liberties. And the issue of gay marriage feels like one of those times when it couldn't hurt the church to allow the gays to change the label of something they already have.

A few feeble reasons have been presented. The case of the Catholic Church choosing to discontinue their adoption agency in Massachusetts after the judicial decree that they place children with gay couples is evidence that maybe at least some of the Church leaders' warnings are not merely slippery-slope scare tactics, but rooted in verifiable past experience. The Church's claim that marriage is ordained of God could be expressing a claim that marriage is not a societal contract between people, but rather something older, immutable, and God-given.

Still, these are claims that pale in comparison with the apparent (or perceived?) effects on the homosexual people of disallowing marriage between two members of the same sex. Furthermore, these claims are not ones that could be made to persuade someone in any secular light. To me, the obvious choice is to allow gay marriage.

However, I am cognizant of the fact that I have not attained the longest view on any earthly matters. I do have a testimony of a living prophet (and that testimony has been reinforced recently due to my soul-searching on this issue). It is strange to me that the church is taking such a strong stance on what appears to be a political issue. My political views are sharply contrasted with the commandments I've been given from the church. But I have to remember the watchtower metaphor: the man up in the tower shouts warnings and instruction to the people below, and the wise heed his words because they know he knows something they don't.

For me, it all boils down to this quote from President Harold B. Lee:

"The power of Satan will increase; we see it in evidence on every hand. …

"Now the only safety we have as members of this church is to do exactly what the Lord said to the Church in that day when the Church was organized. We must learn to give heed to the words and commandments that the Lord shall give through his prophet, 'as he receiveth them, walking in all holiness before me; … as if from mine own mouth, in all patience and faith.' (D&C 21:4–5.) There will be some things that take patience and faith. You may not like what comes from the authority of the Church. It may contradict your political views. It may contradict your social views. It may interfere with some of your social life. But if you listen to these things, as if from the mouth of the Lord himself, with patience and faith, the promise is that 'the gates of hell shall not prevail against you; yea, and the Lord God will disperse the powers of darkness from before you, and cause the heavens to shake for your good, and his name's glory.' (D&C 21:6.)" (in Conference Report, Oct. 1970, 152; or Improvement Era, Dec. 1970, 126).

The promises made in that quote are powerful, and they're what I truly want out of this life. I really do believe these words from one of our latter-day prophets.

I do worry that people will read a quote like this and become myrmidons. That sort of unquestioned loyalty is what leads to the worst of inhumane atrocities. So let me be clear that I would never obey a commandment with which I disagree. But I will appeal directly to God to ascertain that a new commandment is indeed from Him. That's what our leaders have counseled us to do (indeed, it's the counsel that led to the first vision in the first place): to appeal directly to the source of all wisdom. One can receive a second witness of the prophet's words through the Holy Ghost.

That's the invitation I'll be making to my friends who are pondering what to do and on which side of the line to pitch their tents. The invitation to not just go out and vote based solely on political ideologies or visceral reactions to sensational pleas and anecdotes. Nor do I want people to vacantly follow the instruction of any leader or activist. I would have people take all of those things into account and ask God in humble prayer (being willing to have a change of heart if the answer is contrary to the one expected) what their responsibilities are vis-a-vis Proposition 8. If you happen to get a different answer from mine, I will support you in your decision, knowing that you (like I am) are choosing to act on your conscience in the best way you know how.

When I did that, I received an answer that I can't rightly defend to other people using the usual logic and rhetoric. But when people ask me how I can possibly defend such a notion, I can view it as an opportunity to bear my testimony of a living prophet, whose purpose is to be the mouthpiece for God and help set a common course for people in a time when so many divergent paths are viewed as the right one.

In fine, I don't urge you to vote yes on 8, but I urge you to turn the question directly to your God and act accordingly. Whatever decision you make, I love and respect you, and I hope the best for you and for all of us.

--Robbie

[edit: Thanks for all the comments! I've left a response to each down at comment number 23 or so. I appreciate the discussion!]

Powwow

Further dashing my hopes that I may someday live a “normal” life, Ty Mansfield (King of the Gay Mormons) called me the other day (to proposition me, he said; I told him I was going to tell the internet). Apparently the leaders of the Navajo Nation wanted to meet with us the next day because they are trying to restructure their government and need to know what to do with the 2005 law they passed stating that marriage is only between a man and a woman. So we went.

I must say I was pretty nervous. I may have been mistaken for an Indian in the past, but I’m not one, and I had no idea what sort of cultural barriers I might run into. Do you shake hands? Or do you just raise your palm and say “How?” Is “Navajo” plural? Is it offensive? Was there any way I could score some Navajo tacos out of this deal? Was I going to have to smoke something? Did thinking about these questions automatically make me unqualified to help them?

So the next afternoon I texted Ty “What are you wearing?” which cracks me up. He didn’t answer in time for me to change my own outfit, so I showed up in a nice shirt and tie, and he showed up in the standard shorts and polo. Oh, well. I don’t mind being overdressed. Plus at least I didn’t go with my first thought, which was this: “Hmmm, it should be something part Indian. What do they wear? Feathers? And then something part gay… A feather boa! Perfect!” Really, all you gay Indians out there, if you want to start building understanding and tolerance in your community, you probably need to start building your outfits around the feather boa. I think snakes are even sacred to your people anyway. Wasn’t your Quetzalcoatl god a feathered serpent? It’s a good thing the American Indians have me to sort out their complex social issues for them.

So we showed up and Ty apologized for what he was wearing, probably mostly to make me feel more at ease, because the nicest any of the Navajos was dressed was a bolo tie, which I felt was a little stereotypical. The obvious leader of the group was an elderly man who had served as Supreme Court Justice in the Navajo Supreme Court for 13 years. The rest were aides or interns or something, but their opinions seemed to matter. They asked question after question for an hour and a half, and we answered them all. Each of the men seemed to have his own individual agenda, to which our words were constantly twisted. The whole meeting seemed a large balancing act, paring away what I didn’t believe, some from this side, then some from that side, until we got to the core of it.

Here are some things that I gathered that seem to matter to the Indians:

Their government and laws (they have their own constitution that does not fall under the U.S. constitution) have grown inorganically, mirroring our constitution. A push is being made to return their government to its traditional setup, with spiritual leaders called “medicine men” at the head. A problem with this is that the medicine men’s treatment of early signs of homosexuality is to send the person into the desert for nine days. That’s a long time.

The Navajos have not ever had a case of two of their citizens of the same sex trying to marry. They view the law as moot, built to reflect the current political trends in the U.S. At the same time, they worry that such a law only engenders prejudice, and would not want the laws they have set up acting as the catalysts for hatred.

Many fear that the Navajo people have forgotten their roots and rich heritage. According to the leader, gays were traditionally treated with much respeck (that's a Navajo word they taught me that means "respect"). “Just like you would treat a firstborn son or twins with respeck,” he said to me, which I felt was the sentence which most clearly pulled back the curtain on the differences between our cultures and mindsets. We learned that that mindset had changed over the last hundred years, as conservative U.S. values have seeped into their community, and that several of the current leaders among the Navajos have begun to accept those values as a part of the Navajo historic heritage (the same thing exactly has happened among the Mormons; we're forgetting that our church membership wasn't always aligned with the Republican Party).

The Navajos also don’t wish to make a homosexual person feel that he or she must necessarily live a homosexual lifestyle just because he or she feels homosexual desires. Their first law is respeck for all people. They also seem heavy on the “live and let live” policy, for which they have another special Navajo word they taught us that I don’t remember.

Now, here are some points that I made during the meeting:

First, they may have never had a case of two Navajos of the same sex trying to get married, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen. It’s the same with Utah: I can’t imagine wanting to live in Utah if I were trying to live in a gay marriage and adopt children and all. There are better places for that. But that doesn’t mean our law is moot. There are activists out there who would try to get married in Utah specifically to challenge our laws. And the fact that we have a law set up means that we already know in advance how we are going to deal with that when the time comes. I told the Indians that their nation would probably someday come to a similar point, where their laws are being tested not from within, but by a movement from the U.S. that aims to challenge their beliefs. Inorganic laws can serve as a good preemptive defense against inorganic activism.

Next, I told them about the changes we helped effect in the BYU Honor Code, and how the most important part to me was that it now specifically states that a person can be open about his sexuality. Homosexual behavior is still not allowed, but the new wording prevents the problem of the rule itself fostering anti-gay feelings. In this way, the law takes responsibility for itself.

Furthermore, I said, I would never want to coerce someone into living what I believe. I also would not want to push someone into living the opposite of what I believe. What I would rather do is clear the way before them and let them choose their own path (that’s how Navajos talk, right?). I gave the example of the teenage boy who went and got a tattoo without asking for parental permission, an action which was clearly against his family’s values. His family, however, maintained the attitude, “oh just let him do whatever he wants.” The flaw in that thinking is evident when one takes the teenager’s actions to the next level. What if what he wants is to do drugs? I told those Navajos that it’s fine to let people make their own decisions, but that doesn’t mean that at any point we stop teaching them our values and spiritual traditions, and that we have a responsibility to those over whom we have a charge to help them make good decisions, as well.

I don’t know how much anything we said actually reached them, or whether they’ll be able to communicate any of it back to their government in any useful way, but I felt that the meeting went very well.

After the meeting, we talked to one of the aides, who, it turns out, is Navajo and Mormon and a closeted homosexual. Yikes! Sucks to be him. He is working in his government right now, trying to bring about social change, which is the reason he can’t come out. He’d lose his job. It was really neat to talk to someone who was fighting the same fight, but on a different battlefield. My prayers are with that kid. I can’t imagine how tough it must be to mix three different clashing cultures in one life. I hope he writes a book.

Anyway, I do have one regret from the meeting. It’s that probably if I had just remembered to bring some firewater and beads to the meeting, I could right now own a LOT of Arizona. Yeah, but who wants it anyway, right? I mean... right?

Storm

Happy Mothers' Day, everyone. Here's a poem I wrote about my own mother a few years back. It's based on the account of Peter as found in the Bible.

Storm

The clouds finally burst one December night with a phone call,

Lightning travelling along the wires,

Thunder awakening her where she slept,

Tossing and turning

On her flimsy wooden fishing boat,

Alone.

A woman

On the other end of the line

Said he's not coming home

And in a moment the sun was gone from the sky.

Soon the storm was raging,

The depths of hell dumping down from the heights of heaven,

Her delicate head getting heavier with the weight of the cold rain,

The swells trying to toss her off kilter,

Children clinging to her thinning wet housedress,

Apostles huddling in terror,

Ghosts on the waves,

Bills in the mailbox,

No one to steer the ship.

The whole universe waiting for her to face her storm,

Grab the wheel,

Save them.

But the wheel had come loose,

The rudders were broken,

The ship could not be steered.

"I cannot even save myself!"

She yelled in her prayers at night.

"I cannot weather the storm."

She rocked herself to sleep,

Hugging the cold places on her back where his arms belonged.

The long night dragged on,

Creaking timber,

Cracks in the boards where the water was forcing itself through,

Where she couldn't keep everything together.

And in the fourth watch of the night,

Sometime in mid-January,

In the center of the pitching waves and the pitch black,

She looked out over the tumultuous sea

And faced her God.

She could barely discern his face

Through the rain and mist and darkness and distance,

But she called out to him.

"Lord, if you are there, please bid me to come to you."

And he said, "Come."

She looked around at her small house,

Two kids to a bed,

And she looked at her empty résumé,

And she looked at her empty cupboards,

And then she peered over the edge of the small boat,

And looked at the murky, stormy water,

And imagined all the eels,

And sharks,

And tentacles down in the sludge.

Finally she looked up at her Lord, who was still beckoning,

And she stepped off her porch

With her briefcase and a sack lunch,

And went to work.

She did it!

She was doing it!

She didn't need to swim.

She could walk all the way.

And she sat behind her desk,

Filing papers and earning money.

But then she knocked a stack of papers off the desktop,

And she bent to pick it up,

And she looked down,

And she saw the swirling sea,

She saw that the wind was boisterous,

That no one would ever love her,

That her children would starve

And she'd never make it on her own.

She was afraid.

She started to sink,

Up to her neck in bills,

Over her head with raising a family,

Drowning in cold turbulent loneliness.

With her last breath she gasped,

"Lord, save me!"

Immediately,

Jesus dived into the water,

Sank into the sadness with her,

Stretched forth his hand,

And caught her.

Wet, and shivering,

Tangled in seaweed,

He pulled her onto the boat,

Wrapped her in a towel,

And hugged her to let her know she was safe,

His arms warming her back.

He closed his eyes,

The clouds parted,

The wind ceased,

The boat stood still,

The bills were paid,

The children were fed,

And the spots of longing on her back had vanished.

When the sun came out,

Pouring golden light on the gray sea,

And she was made perfectly whole,

Jesus left her side.

She stood again,

Went to the edge of the boat,

Looked out across the gentle waves,

And whispered over her placid sea,

"Thank you, Lord, for rescuing me.

Please help me learn how to walk back to you on my own."

She got out of bed, got ready,

And went to work again

With a prayer in her heart.

There Was a Missionary Went Forth

Here's another I've had in reserve so y'all will have something to read while I'm busy with life. See some of you at EG Conference!



There Was a Missionary Went Forth

After Walt Whitman's “There Was a Child Went Forth”


There was a missionary went forth every day,

And every object he looked upon, that object he became

And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,

Or for the whole two years or for all the rest of his years.

The mangy perros became part of this missionary,

And the frosted white fig trees and hail, and warm bags of roasted chestnuts tucked under his coat,

And the Antarctic wind roaring across the icy waves,

And the neighbor’s gigantic roan ox, and the fat turkeys, and the gregarious pengüinos,

And the muddy roads that try to swallow travelers’ feet, and the snow falling in the streetlights onto the black rolling ocean,

And the vaulted sky feeling so far away, and the sun setting like mixing paint behind the jagged cerro,

And the clouds parting on the horizon to let through picturesque shards of dawn, all became part of him.

The blackberry bushes and the frambuesa became part of him,

Flaky empenadas and frozen brown bananas, and the guinea fowl chattering in the back yard,

And the angry river threatening to rise right up to the house, and the weeks with no sunlight, and the mist swirling upon the perfectly reflective mountain lake right in the middle of town,

And the old drunk man begging by the bus stop,

And the teenage snakes, whistling, and vying for attention,

And the government employed women gossiping in an empty field with shovels, and the

shopkeepers in their tiendas, mindlessly watching their novelas,

And the viejitos crossing themselves for protection as they walked by, and the sad

Prostitutas on the corner by the bar,

And the crazy Mamita, laughing at her own jokes, kwa kwa kwa,

And the investigator who never quit smoking, and his hijitas with the most beautiful brown eyes,

And the old man in the hut, tending his pollitos and never missing church,

And the escrituras, the only friends from back home allowed to come along,

And all the wonders of ocean and mountain wherever he went.

His parents sent letters, which came to a p.o. box in Panguipulli, and then were forwarded on the bus that was the only inlet and outlet of the town,

The letters that sustained him and tied him to the realities of home.

Mother at home, offering advice and quoting scripture,

Mother asking for prayers, and encouraging and worrying, sending food and ties and most importantly a “Love, Mom” every week like clockwork,

Father, seldom, jocular, narrow-minded, faithless, supportive,

His letters, emphasis steered away from matters of God and faith and accountability,

The postcards, the packages, the biannual phone calls, the newspaper clippings, the admonitions,

The temptations of el diablo, the whisperings of the spirit, the shadow of doubt creeping in,

Hunger for knowledge, trust in companions, whom to teach and where to go,

Whether a day’s labor has made any difference, Whether the standards taught are the standards lived,

Men and women and families walking by in the streets, and which ones would be receptive?

The high, overly paved roads and the silly Toyland-colored houses, and the panaderías with their sticky berlíneres,

Taxicabs, carts pulled by bueyes, ice-slicked hills, frozen dirt paths converging in el centro,

Fallen fences, tundra, grapevines, wood smoke filling the valley,

The view from up on the hill where the whole village, the whole flock, looked like one sunken bustling jewel box,

The workers lining up outside the mousetrap factory and the lechería in the dark hours of morning,

The sheets of ice careening in the Straight of Magellan,

The stars striving to outshine each other,

The fleas and the bedbugs dead from the cold the next day,

The spot on the ground that leads through the earth’s mantle and comes up back home,

The stiff frozen line of laundry, the smells of running water and shivering sweat, the boots tragically still wet when it’s time to put them on again,

The desperate love, the long-sought testimony, the sincere prayers, and the sturdy faith,

These became a part of that missionary who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth and thrust in his sickle every day.

Lucila: The True Story

When I was in the MTC, I started dreaming about an old Mexican woman. She was standing on a green porch in front of a brick house, shaking out a rug. She had bright red lipstick on, and her hair was dyed black. I would wake up from these dreams with this feeling of love for this woman, though I had no idea who she was. One of our teachers told us that if we desired it, the Lord would bless us with love for the people we would come to teach before we ever even met them. So I figured this must be the case.

I left for Chile, and the dreams ceased for a while. At one point, a letter arrived from Mom that announced that my younger brother, Ouija, had dropped out of high school and moved back to our home state of California (they had all moved to Colorado right before my mission). She said in the letter that he had stopped going to church. I decided to have a fast for Ouija, that he would one day come back to the church and serve an honorable full-time mission. Being hypoglycemic, I knew that I wasn't really supposed to fast, but I figured the cause was great enough that it would be worth a few medical complications.

The next morning, as I was ending my fast, I began to have brown urine. This came and went for the next few months. The mission president's wife told me it was probably dehydration, and to drink more water.

I was transferred to Punta Arenas, a beautiful city at the end of the world where it snows on the beach and all the houses are painted bright gay colors like salmon and chartreuse and turquoise. And the dreams came back. By now I'd seen enough of southern Chile to know that the lady in my dreams wasn't down there at all. She was back in the United States. The dreams came with more and more intensity, until finally I decided to pray about what to do. I decided to talk to my companion about the issue. He agreed with my own idea that maybe I was supposed to go back and finish my mission in the United States. We decided to talk to Elder Moffit, my district leader.

Elder Moffit seemed to agree, upon hearing my story, that I needed to talk to the mission president about the possibility of an inter-mission transfer. First, though, I'd have to talk to the zone leaders and then the assistants to the president, and finally the president himself. So I sat down with the zone leaders, who supported me just as my companion and my district leader had. The next step was to call the assistants. Just my luck, I got Elder Camilla, on whose bad side I'd been ever since I met him at zone conference and, well....

Zone conference: Elder Camilla was up in front of the chapel presenting his new teaching program to all the missionaries. The idea was simple. We would teach the principle of baptism in every section of the first discussion. Part one was about God the father, and during that part, we would mention that through baptism God has prepared a way for us to come back to him. Part two was about Jesus Christ, and we could mention that we are following his example when we get baptized. And so forth. During the presentation, I was squirming a bit in my chair. It all seemed a lot like the Saturday Night Live character Subliminal Man to me. Finally, I had to say something. I raised my hand, and when called upon, I presented a different approach.

"This new system seems like it would work if our end goal were just baptism," I said. "But to me baptism isn't the most important part of the gospel. The atonement is. It isn't doing us any good to keep baptizing people if they aren't learning to utilize the atonement to help them to stay in the church. Why don't we mention the atonement in every part of the discussions? Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to return to him, so he provided the atonement for us.... Jesus Christ atoned for our sins so that we can be clean again.... Joseph Smith's vision taught us much about the nature of God and his love for us, and it's because of Joseph Smith that we now know so much about the atonement.... The Book of Mormon teaches us more about the atonement than we'd ever known before. Then by the time we get around to talking about baptism, we can say, will you accept the atonement of Jesus Christ in your life by repenting of your sins and being baptized in his name?"

Elder Camilla waited patiently for me to say all of that, and then started back in where he'd left off. "Well, Elder Smurf, that's a nice thought, but this is the new system we're going to be using for the next while. In the fourth principle--"

"Hold on a second." It was the mission president, cutting off Elder Camilla mid-sentence. He was standing up now, on the stand behind Elder Camilla. "I think Elder Smurf has a good idea here. Go ahead and have a seat, Elder Camilla." The mission president took the chalk from an aggravated Elder Camilla, erased what he'd had on the board so far, and replaced it with the details of the new system I'd thought up.

Anyway, the point of that aside is that that's the only other interaction I'd had with Elder Camilla before having to call him to tell him I needed to talk to the mission president about my crazy dreams.

So now I was on the phone with Elder Camilla, who informed me that the president was in a meeting. "What is this about?" he asked. So I told him the whole story, maybe a little more succinctly than previous versions of the story, because the call was long distance. He tried to "resolve my concerns," a trick they'd taught us in the MTC to help others to see the flaws in their own thinking. "So what you're saying is that you feel that the prophet called you to the wrong mission." It didn't even feel like a question.

"No, I know I was supposed to come here, but I feel that maybe it's time for me to go somewhere else. I've been praying about this, and I feel I need to at least explore the possibility."

Elder Camilla promised to talk to the mission president about my "concerns." He used the word a bit pointedly, so I'd know he felt this was just something I needed to resolve. Plus, the Spanish word for "concern" is the same as their word for "doubt," calling my story into further question. He said he would talk to the president and I could expect to hear back from him in the next few minutes.

I waited by the phone. It rang after only about three minutes. I picked it up and said "hello."

"Elder Smurf, junior companions are not supposed top answer the phone." It was Elder Camilla, and that was not a real rule. I hung up.

The phone rang again. "Can someone please come answer this phone?" I shouted to the five senior companions who were living with us at the time

"Why don't you?" someone hollered back.

"Because I'm not a senior companion."

My own companion came and answered the phone.

"Hello? Uh-huh. It's for you."

He handed me the phone. "Hi, Elder Smurf, it's Elder Camilla. The President does agree with me that the prophet did call you to this mission and he didn't make a mistake." This time he hung up on me, and I couldn't get in a word edgewise.

I was a little mad at this point. The zone and district leaders and my companion all came in and sat down with me. We all lived in the same house, after all. It was decided that they would all fast for me and my cause. I knew I wasn't supposed to fast, especially after the whole brown urine thing that still hadn't completely gone away, but I couldn't let all these young men fast for me without my doing my part. SO I agreed to fast along with them, starting right then.

The next morning, I woke up with something very, very wrong. I was starving, for one thing, so I got up, grabbed a huge salad bowl, poured in an entire bag of Chilean Cocoa Krispies and a whole box of milk, and ate it all with a gravy spoon. Then I was VERY tired, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I lay back down on my bed and succumbed to sleep. I awoke just in time for lunch. My companion seemed very worried about me. he was sitting on his own bed, reading his scriptures when I came to. I felt better than before, though a bit weak. There were really no major problems, though. At last not until I stood up. And then everything went haywire. My heart was beating extremely hard and fast, as though I'd just been running. I took my pulse. 120. I knew that a normal heart rate was between 60 and 80 beats per minute at rest. We had a lunch appointment, and I thought we should try to walk the few blocks to the members' house and eat as we normally would. It was a Sunday, and we had church right after lunch, so this would be a good way to get the day started. By the time we got there, however, my pulse was up to 180. It didn't go back down all through lunch. I started to get a pain through the left side of my chest and my left arm and shoulder. "He's having a heart attack!" the mother of the household kept calling. She made me to lie down on the couch as she ran to the neighbors' to use their phone so she could call the family from our ward who had the car. They came and picked me up and took me to the hospital.

The Doctor gave me a pill to calm my nerves and everything went back to normal. He said I'd be fine, but that he wanted me to return the next day so that he could double check everything.

By my appointment the next day, my pulse had sky-rocketed again, and I was feeling dizzy and weak. He admitted me to the hospital to un some tests. I saw all kinds of specialists over the course of the next five days. I had blood taken from veins and arteries, I had sonograms taken of my heart, I was tested in a room where they did something nuclear to me as I lay on a table with some sort of spinning apparatus passing all around me in different directions like I was the nucleus of a cell. In the end, a neurologist came to see me.

I should mention that some time around my third day, I received a call in my hospital room from the mission president. "Elder Smurf, tell me about this dream," was the first thing he'd said. So I did. I told him all about it, and how I'd prayed and felt like I was supposed to go back to the United States. He said that maybe what was happening to me now was the Lord's way of taking care of things. I completely agreed.

The neurologist came to see me on the fourth day, and he had an idea about what was wrong with me. He'd just been to a seminar that weekend, he told me, up in Santiago, and he was the only doctor from Punta Arenas in attendance. There'd been a doctor there from the United States who had taught them all about a new disease that Chileans had never heard of before. They called it "sindrome de falla autonomica aguda," or "acute autonomic failure syndrome." he had some simple tests he wanted to run, makeshift versions of tests they'd have run on me if he's had all the equipment available in the United States. In one test, he monitored several aspects of my health while having me stand up and lie down alternately. All the tests confirmed his theory. He broke the "bad" news to me: he was sending me back to the United States.

It was a holiday that day, some Catholic saint's birthday, and there was a mad rush to gather together all of the missionaries who were in the city and collect enough money to pay for my plane ticket back to the United States, since the banks were all closed. We made it just in time, and I ended up leaving without really getting to say goodbye to the members or the other missionaries. I never got to see the mission president during all of that. Everything was a blur.

Meanwhile, my neurologist, who spoke only Spanish, explained to the mission doctor, a gynecologist who spoke only English, that I had experienced shortness of breath and that I'd need to stay reclined as much as possible. The mission doctor explained that to my mission president, who spoke only Spanish. He, in turn, called some people in Salt Lake City, who called my stake president in California, who called my mom's stake president in Colorado, who called my mom and told her that I was paralyzed and on a respirator.

Mom met me at the airport with a wheel chair.

She was relieved to see me walk off the plain, but cried when she saw that my weight had dropped fifty pounds in the five months I'd been in Chile. I weighed 125 lbs. when I stepped off the plane, and stood 6'2 as always.

I stayed in Colorado at my mom's house for a month. I still arose at regular missionary time, studied my Spanish every day, and did all the things a missionary is supposed to do. And I went to the doctor. I needed a clean bill of health before they'd allow me to continue my mission stateside. Miraculously, the day of the tests, I woke up and everything was fine. There was absolutely nothing wrong with me. The doctor had never heard of something called "acute autonomic failure syndrome," and he explained to me that I had probably caught what doctors call a "funny virus," a foreign virus that hasn't been documented yet. He signed the bill of health, and my mom's stake president faxed it off to Salt Lake. A week later I received a phone call and was informed that I'd be finishing my mission in Tennessee, Knoxville, and that I'd be going with three other missionaries who had just returned home from Spanish-speaking missions, and that the three of us would be the first Spanish missionaries in that mission.

When I got to Tennessee, I explained about the dreams to the mission president. He sent me down to Dalton, Georgia, where my first companion was a Mexican Elder who'd been called to serve in English. Our first day of proselyting, Elder Valdovinos took me to the government housing in a poor area of town. I was dumbfounded when we arrived. Every house in the neighborhood was made of brick and had a green porch. Just like my dream! I started to get excited. We hadn't gone two blocks before I saw her, not shaking out a rug, but rather shaking the dust out of a window fan. She looked exactly as she did in my dreams. Her name was Lucila.

We talked to her. We taught her the first discussion. She was very receptive. I was overcome with those same feelings of love I'd had in my dreams, and she seemed to connect with me very well. I came back with a brand new missionary on exchanges a few days later. She had loved the Book of Mormon, and wanted us to teach her whole family. We taught them all the first discussion. I came back again with yet a different missionary shortly after that, and taught the second discussion, the one that has the baptismal invitation. They accepted. Elder Valdovinos came with me again when it was time for the third discussion. This time a new lady answered the door.

She told us that Lucila and her family had been caught by the INS and that they'd been sent back to Mexico.

And that was it. I never saw her again. I have no idea what became of that family.

And the sad ending doesn't stop there. It was indeed a miracle that I'd been better on the day when I was given my doctor's clearance to return to the mission field, but as soon as we'd gotten out to the car, I'd once again become weak and dizzy and short of breath. I was throwing up a lot. I'd thrown up on the plane on my way out to the new mission. I'd thrown up all the tie between discussions.. I'd gotten so dizzy I had crashed my bike at a high speed and procured scars that I still bear to this day. Now Lucila was gone, and I knew it would be only a matter of time before I could no longer keep my illness hidden from those in authority.

And one day I got bronchitis. I had to go to the doctor to get pills, and he took my pulse and checked my file and confronted me with the truth: "You still have what you got down in Chile, don't you?"

I confessed, and he called our mission president (the doctor was also a member of the church). This was a Saturday. The mission president told me I'd be going home that Monday. I was sad. I spent Sunday night praying/arguing with God. He usually wins those. "I refuse to learn any lessons from this," I remember yelling at him at one point, "because every time I do you just throw something worse and more horrible at me. So that's it. I'm staying right here." Soon, though, my heart was softened and I was overcome with the knowledge that Christ had been with me through all of the trials I'd experienced, and that he was undoubtedly with me even still. I could feel his presence in the room with me.

And I came home. To California this time, since I was going home to stay. I'd lasted two months in the Tennessee Knoxville Mission. After being home for another month or two, I was released as a missionary. It was during that time that I wrote the poem, "Lucila." After my release, I was given the opportunity to speak in the ward from which I'd left. My brother, Ouija, came to hear me speak. I told the congregation the story of Lucila, and her sudden disappearance. I told them that I didn't know why I had to come home when I did, but that I knew the Lord was behind it.

Ouija met up with Don, his old best friend from high school. Don invited him to institute. He came to institute, and came back to church the next week. In fact, he didn't miss church again during that whole year. Don left on a mission. And a year after my homecoming, we were back in my old ward, only this time for Ouija's homecoming. He bore his testimony, shared some stories, and then he looked right at me where I was seated in the congregation. "My brother doesn't know why he had to come home early from his mission," he said. "But I do. If he hadn't come home right when he did, I wouldn't be standing here today." Of course I cried.

Ouija went on to be the top baptizing missionary in his mission in Mississippi.

I still don't know what all of that means. But I know I'm a better person for it.

Closer to God, My pride on a shelf.
I was looking for her, but instead found myself.

Temple Pageant

Well, since I already just wrote all this out in an e-mail, I figured it would be much easier to just copy and paste it. Which is why I'm still not telling you about the eggs and the balloons. Maybe next time.

Okay, so the Manti Pageant. I have to say that I totally expected it to be dumb, mostly because of the way that everybody kept telling me how dumb it was except for the people who kept telling me how great it was, which were mostly dumb people. So I went into it expecting crap. I was therefore at least pleasantly surprised by the special effects, like the pillar of light and all the fireballs and things. Pinetree really hated it. He couldn't stand how melodramatic it was. I think he thought a pageant is more of a play than "2 : SHOW, EXHIBITION; especially : an elaborate colorful exhibition or spectacle often with music that consists of a series of tableaux." I have to admit that the tableaux were pretty unsettling. I didn't like how there were tons and tons of Joseph Smiths running around doing different things at the same time. The narrators had an impressive vocabulary. Jesus appeared to the Nephites directly behind a lighting tower, which I had predicted. Pinetree thinks it was a sign. The worst thing was the way that everybody moved their arms when they talked. Well, actually the real worst thing was this DORK that we took with us who got up in the middle and went to sit somewhere else so he "could feel the spirit." I guess he was annoyed by some of the comments that Pinetree was making. Pinetree later apologized, but I didn't think that was necessary, because his comments didn't keep me from feeling the spirit. When it was over Pinetree said that he didn't like all the patriotic themes running through it (I'm not sure whether the scene in which Brigham young sees Captain Moroni, several of the founding fathers, and some strange Indian who all tell him about the greatness of America is based on a real event, but either way it was heavy handed and seemed to promote the war in Iraq). And then this kid was all, "Well, if you'd ever read the Book of Mormon you would know that it's all about patriotism and America." And Pinetree probably wanted to punch him but he didn't. And then the kid said all these rude things to me and then he just disappeared. And then when I got home there were like a million (okay three) texts from him on my phone continuing the argument, which I thought was extra dumb. Anyway, I actually liked the pageant, I'll admit it, although I'm still trying to figure out whether I liked it as some sort of knee-jerk devil's advocate reaction to all the naysayers or whether I really was whelmed by the small-town charm and rustic coming-together appeal of the whole thing. I could tell that these people were really putting their hearts into this thing. Part of me was thinking, "Man, it would be fun to do this with my kids some day," and the rest was just terrified of all the Angel Moronis running around beforehand in drag-queen makeup asking us if we wanted to refer someone to the missionaries and interrupting our game of Apples to Apples, which I won by a lot.

Double Feature

Part One: Homemaking Night

So Pinetree has this roommate. He's a nice guy, but he has some questionable taste. Like, for instance this poster that he puts up in their living room. It's all, "Marines: liberators, protectors, warriors." And it shows this marine all gussied up in his killing gear and it looks kinda like this, only nighttime:















And so naturally, Pinetree hates the poster, right? I mean, besides being flagrant propaganda, it's not like it's even a cool picture. Seriously it's lots lamer than the above picture. So anyway, Pinetree comes up with this ingenious plan. We're gonna steal the poster. Only we can't just take it down, because then it will be totally obvious that he did it, because who else cares what posters are up in somebody's house? So Pinetree decides to make up some girls and then we can frame them.

So I borrow some pink and yellow construction papers from Wiggle and write in my stupid-girl handwriting a message that's all, "If you ever want to see your poster again come to apartment 9 tomorrow at 7" or something. And then I cut it up in little puzzle pieces.

Then we decide to make some cookies to sweeten the deal, with a little note that's like, "There's more where this came from." But we also decide to make the cookies really nasty just because that's funny, right?

Well, a few days pass, and before we can get in there to do it we end up at Denny's at midnight with a buncha friends, including Vero Awesome. And she's all, "Time for frivolity, yo." So we're all, yeah, let's go make cookies. And somebody has the sweet idea to just buy some cookies at the store and then frost them with something nasty. So we choose toothpaste. The only problem with toothpaste is it might not be nasty enough, and there's a little note on the box that goes, "If more than the normal amount used for brushing is swallowed, contact a physician or a poison control center immediately." So we're worried they'll be all, "Mmmm, minty cookies" and eat 'em all and totally croak, as opposed to them being all, "Blech! Aquafresh cookies! Angry!" and then we all laugh. So we go to the store, and we open one container to see if it's nasty enough, but it's blue stripes, so before we even try it, we decide to close it back up and put it back on the shelf. But it's not staying closed, see, so we go to the tape aisle and get some tape and tape it shut and put it back. And the tape. We put them both back.

And then we decide on the Pepsodent and it's white, and it's me and Vero and Wiggle and Pinetree, and Wiggle says we need sprinkles to heighten the effect, and she's right of course. S owe get those too, and Vero wants to also give cookies to these two dudes we work with named Ryan and Greg who are roommates, so we get more cookies and we get cards for them. And we sit around in the parking lot, frosting the cookies with ghetto plastic knives I horked from the deli part of the store, even though it was closed and all these break-taking employees were sitting over there looking at me like, "What the? Did that Arabian dude just walk in here and steal plastic knives?" And yes, yes I did.

So we frost the cookies, and the womenfolk sign the cards (which are perfect to begin with because they talk about "more love where these come from" or some crap), and Vero gives us two wonderfully horrible long dyed-red hairs to frost into the cookies (one for each plate). Then we are still a bit worried about, like, what if the guy eats the cookies and is all, "mmm, like thin mints, delish!" and eats them all and dies. After all, the box the paste came in has that little warning on the bottom for a reason, I point out. So Wiggle suggests we just cut that thing out and tape it on the bottom of the plate of cookies. Good thinking, Wiggle! So we do, thus assuaging our guilt in a very legally permissible way.

And we go to Greg and Ryan's first, and Racherella tells us where they keep their key, and I go, but I can't find the key, so I doorbell ditch it and go running out of there like a rabbit from a dog show. But on the way out Vero notices that we got the wrong apartment, so I go back, and fortunately the plate and the card are still sitting there, and we take it to the right apartment and I go in and leave it on their counter and this time sneak out like a mouse at a, um, nother dog show.

And then we go to Pinetree's, and Vero Awesome takes the cookies and the feminine puzzle and comes back out with the poster (remember that's why we did all this in the first place?) and we give it to Dice and we go home and go to bed. It was frickin' awesome, and it reminded me that I can have mischievous fun without getting the police involved.

Part Two: Connections

I have been to see Dr. Robinson four times now. He's incredible. He talks to me for forty-five minutes, asking questions and taking these big long pauses as he considers what to say next. When I speak, he writes everything down, scribble scribble scribble, on his clipboard. He goes through several sheets of paper each time, because I can be quite loquacious. I told him next time I'm bringing a clipboard and writing down everything he says, and then pausing for a few minutes and sighing before responding every time, and see how HE likes it. I don't know if he even understood what I was talking about on that one. After the forty-five minutes he starts telling ME things, and the pieces click together, and I feel like I have been tricked into learning so much.

Anyway, the first time we were together, he taught me something cool that I had thought I already knew about myself and the way brains work.

He gave me an example. He said we take the word "cat." And we take the spelling of the word. He drew this all out for me on paper. He said we can take a baby and teach it that the word means the spelling, and it will learn it. You say the word, the baby will pick out the spelling. He said that we can then take the cat itself and teach the baby that the word means the cat. Then he said that we can also teach these things to animals. A dolphin or a dog or a bird can learn to pick the right one from among misleading choices. You say "cat" and the monkey will point to the cat.

The difference, he said, is that the baby will also automatically learn that the spelling means the word, as well. He will learn it both ways. He will also learn that the cat means the word. And then he will learn that the spelling means the actual cat and vice versa. Humans make six automatic connections where the animals will learn only two. It's what sets us apart as humans, he said. Our ability to make connections. Our minds become a web of connections and it's how we learn and deal with the world.

The cool thing is that I am well aware that my mind forms these connections. I assign everything a color, I spell it out in my head. I alphabetize all items in groups. Like you say "colors," and I start to think "amethyst, apricot, azure, black, blue, brown, burgundy, burnt orange, etc...." And that's just now off the top of my head. The Human mind is amazing. Given a minute or two, we can eventually find a specific link, no matter how feeble between any two given things. For instance, if you had to say how turnips are the opposite of marbles, you could. Or you could find a way in which carpets are the parent of Puff Daddy.

Anyway, the good Dr. R. next drew the word "Rob." That's my dad's name, as well as a variant of my own, since we technically have the same name. So then he wrote "Dad" and draws an arrow between the two. Then he wrote "me" and drew an arrow from "Rob" to "me." Are you picturing this? then he draws all the other arrows, back from "me" to "Rob" and from "Dad to "Rob" and between "me and "Dad" both ways. No wonder I balk at anyone's calling me "Rob," he says. I immediately connect myself to my dad, and his failures. He next wrote "disaster" and drew the arrow from "Dad" to that. And then all kinds of other scary things my dad has done. And all of it connected to me and my dad through arrows.

I'd always known my brain does that, you see. I just had only been paying attention to the aspect of the connection building that helps me to win board games. I wasn't aware that it was also leading to problems in my life.

So the goal is not to break down those connections, but rather to loosen them, and to build up stronger connections that will supersede those other ones.

This last time we talked about prayer, among other things. Dr. Robinson said he has some patients whom he can't cajole into praying, and that he thinks that's a major factor for success. And on the way home (I always walk home so I can process what I've learned), a thought struck me. On my mission I worked very hard to actually "pray always," as Second Nephi suggests. I spent a lot of time studying and pondering how to actually do that. And I learned some helpful methods. One has simply to direct his thoughts, whatever they be about, to God, keeping Him in the forefront of the mind at all times. One can in this way be sure that his actions are in step, as well. It's the idea behind the CTR ring. Every time you see it there on your finger, you remember the good that you need to be doing. On my mission I met a man named Elías, who was trying to quit smoking. This is not a happy mission story where we helped him to quit smoking and he got baptized and is now first counselor in the branch presidency. It's just a time that I learned an important lesson. One day Elías had a piece of string tied around his finger. He said it was to help him remember to not smoke. When asked about the efficacy of the string, he replied that it didn't work because it kept coming off, and he'd forget. So I gave him my CTR ring. I told him that every time he saw it or felt it or noticed it, he was to pray for the strength he'd need to quit smoking. And I promised him that every time I noticed that the ring was gone or my finger felt naked, I'd pray for him as well. And it worked, as far as reminding me went. I didn't need the ring to remember to choose the right. The absence of the ring could serve the exact same function.

So on this walk home from my weekly session with the therapist, I came to realize that praying always was simply a matter of making everything remind me to choose the right. I had to make ALL the connections connect back to God. I looked around me at the mountains and the sun and the long straight stretch of University Avenue and saw gospel symbolism and turned my thoughts to God. But it's easy with roads and mountains. I needed to connect EVERYTHING. Turnips and carpet and cats and Puff Daddy and my own daddy all need to make me think of God and the things with which he has blessed me and the things he requires of me.

And when I do spiritual things, like going to church or the temple or reading my scriptures, I need to relate them back to the rest of my life, so that those connections already exist when I go out into the world. I realized that's why Nephi also tells us to liken the scriptures to ourselves. It's why Christ taught his parables using images from the people's daily lives. Not just because those are the things they could understand, but also because those are the images the people would be seeing every day after Christ was no longer in their presence.

At one point this last week, Dr. Robinson just leaned back, sighed contemplatively, and said, "You're very weird." That has to make you feel great, right? When a guy whose job it is to deal with crazy people tells you you're very weird? Anyway, the week before he'd been telling me I needed to cut out everything gay in my life, because it could become a trigger. But this last time he said he wasn't so sure any more. I could tell he was struggling to reconcile this with his hard fast rules he'd (until then) entertained. At any rate, we both left there wondering what to do, but by the time I got home I knew. I need to consecrate myself a little more. I need to keep saying my prayers throughout the day, every time I need something or am thankful for something or thinking of someone. I need to connect my life and my surroundings to my God, so that all things point more directly toward him, because I owe him, and I love him.

Mood Music

Some thoughts on music. I put three new songs over on the side here for El Veneno. I hope you guys will listen to all three. I love them all. The first (the one you are probably hearing right now) is from the CD that the Neverbird gave me for my birthday. I love the message it contains, about pressing forward when you're not sure about things. The next is War on Drugs by the Barenaked Ladies. It's one of the most moving songs I know of. They said at their concert that they were singing about a bridge in Canada that had the world's second-highest suicide rate (after the Golden Gate). When the city put a net under the bridge, people just moved up to the next bridge and started jumping from there. So that was the basis of the song, and it has helped me to understand people who suffer from depression more than anything else ever has. Finally, we have a song that is simultaneously funny and sad. It's called Jim Henson's Dead and Gone, by Stephen Lynch, the same guy who does Dead Puppies and If I Could Be a Superhero. I love Muppets, and so I present this song as an homage to Jim Henson. What a brilliant man, who really seemed to understand dreams and making them a reality.

In fact, my dinner group has recently been transformed into a dinner/muppets group. I love that. Turns out my buddy Robb is just as big a muppets fan as I am.

Robb and Pinetree both just got jobs at Los Hermanos. I love that job. I made $15/hour in tips again tonight. I have been making more than anyone else lately. It's been a major blessing. Alecia says I've been doing a great job there, which makes me very happy. I'm learning the joy of hard work, which was what I talked about in my testimony at this Sunday's Latter Day Sounds fireside in Ogden, speaking about the song Come Come Ye Saints. We can't fear toil and labor, but we have to wend our way with joy. The media would have us believe that work and joy are antithetical. That we work only so we can have joy later. But I believe that we are to find joy in serving, and not stop until we have finished our work or died trying. And then either way, it will be a happy day, and only THEN can we join the saints in crying "All is well."

Latter Day Sounds is so good for me. On Saturday Rachel stayed late at work and closed for me (I love that girl) and Nick let me off early so I could catch up with the choir in northern Utah. And so I took a bus to Ogden last-minute to go be with the choir. I ended up screaming in pain and cold in the pouring windy snowy rain, as I got drenched. It was super miserable, but we all have to make sacrifices for the things that are important to us, huh?

Like Pinetree has recently done. Wow. Dr. Robinson says that I'll have to get rid of every gay everything if I want to beat this thing. So of course I thought, "No, that is too much." But then I remembered the rich young man, and how he had been told he would have to give up all he had. And then i remembered Naaman, who really only had to give up his pride, but found that to be almost an insurmountable task, and I started thinking, "What wouldn't I be willing to give up in order to be the man that God wants me to be?" And really, there is nothing. So I am doing what I can with the Dr. Robinson suggestion. Cutting off contact with a lot of people. Identifying which parts of my life strengthen those dangerous connections that my brain makes, and cutting them out, as they stand in my way, triggers to the booby traps I've set for myself in years past, now obscured by dust. Time to bust out the pledge and figure out exactly where those triggers are, and dismantle them. Anyway, I had a long conversation with Pinetree about that yesterday, and then today he tells me he up and cut off someone who I know means a TON to him. I really appreciate his example. I feel like I learn so much from that kid. So now it's my turn to do the same. Time for some major spring cleaning.

I might be losing a lot of things in this process. A lot of friends. We will see.

But I will be okay. I have so MANY other friends who are so good for me these days. My friends from my ward, and from my choir, and from work. I love all of these people. On Friday Jessica and Goat and Wiggle and I are all going to go to see Guster. I am very excited. They have such haunting voices, and can sing melodies both happy and sad. Which brings me to what I really want to say tonight, a message inspired by everything in my life, and most recently and noticeably by the Jim Henson Company movie "Mirror Mask," which I recommend whole-heartedly to anyone who reads this. Anyway, on to today's moral:

I love music so much. It's so good for me. I like to listen to sad music best of all, because "sad" isn't easy for me to feel on my own.

I think sadness is beautiful, like rain and strong battered women and fancy melting candles and rooms all done up in red velvet. Like wildflowers growing raggedly from a crack in a barren rock, or like sputtering, flickering stars, fighting to shine their light down through earth's muggy, twinkly atmosphere. I want to cup the stars in my hand, make someone's sadness my own, protect it from the tempestuous winds of life, shade it from the overpowering glare of sunshine. In the summer, I lie in the crunchy golden grass and look at the ghosts of giants and heroes and magical beasts placed in the night sky to remind us that we all must pass on, that we are only visitors here in this strange land. And I love them. I love their stories. And then the sun comes out, and the stories fade to a soothing baby blue and all can be forgotten. The heroes and their tragic tales are lost. Their beauty exists only in the darkness.

Will Heaven be all light all the time? Or will there be shadows dancing from the fireplace onto the cozy earthen walls? Will there be the dark spaces between the stars, or will they all be filled in with such blinding light that there won't be stars any more at all? Will the forest still hold its dark secretive appeal, or will the leaves in the canopies be forced to move aside and let in the light, stripping the woods of all their murky mysteries? Will all music be in major chords, all clouds cumulus, all stories have happy endings? Will we mourn our damned loved ones? Will we have to forget we ever loved them?

In moving closer to God, will I have to be homogenized? Will we all eventually shine the same bright white, or can I shine golden, or spring green, or vivid tangerine? Will my dark desires be the catalysts that make me more like God, or will they keep me different? Do I give off my own wavelength of light just by moving close to God, a cosmic Doppler Effect that somehow allows my movement to shine my own color of beauty to the stationary viewer, even as I draw closer to the center of the Universe, where gods and matter end? Is my individuality burned up beautifully like a meteor as I draw closer to my goals? Is the incredible journey to sameness the thing that sets us apart in the end? Are our scars what make us beautiful?

I am still discovering so much. I love life. I love the light, and the dark, and the moments like these, right before the proverbial sun rises, when the field is still shrouded in mist, and everything is grey and blurry and coming coldly alive.

Looking Up

Ok, so I have not felt like blogging at all lately. So to make up for it, this is going to be the mother of all blog entries, full of anecdotes and philosophy and a road trip and links and pictures. Seriously, this blog entry is going to start giving birth to other blog entries. I hope you can appreciate this.

Some people who call themselves the Provo Late Knights came upon my confessions blog and invited me to join their ranks. My friend Ryan from efy is in the group, and he vouched for me, so they let me in. What they do is make movies, which you can see here if you have Quicktime 7 (which comes with iTunes). They are mockumentaries about life in Provo after midnight. We filmed one last week that introduced me as their nemesis, but you will have to wait a week or so before they get it all edited. I'm excited for the release, and also to start writing the next one.

Ryan also invited me to the Sundance film festival with him and some cool friends from his ward. We saw Gwyneth Paltrow. I was surprised that she is actually a lot more beautiful than normal people. It was weird. I'd always assumed that movie stars would look less glamorous in person, but not so. We saw seven short films (one of which was Gwyneth's directorial debut), and then they had a Q&A session afterward with all the directors. I asked a question about the lighting to one of the other directors, whose film was better than Gwyneth's, and wasn't funded by Vogue Magazine. We also had some delicious pizza. Man, that was some good stuff. Ryan is a really superior person. He has been going through some tough times lately with the passing on of our mutual friend Carly, but in my own times of turmoil I have really appreciated his involving me in his life. He's a good friend.


My choir went to St. George last weekend. It was such a great experience. We went and saw the new Joseph Smith movie that replaced Testaments. That movie is the best the church has ever produced. I cried through the whole thing. I want to go see it again. Anyone who reads this and is close enough to Salt Lake City or St. George to go watch it, please do. It will change you. Also, I became pretty good buddies with my friend Brett, since we roomed together. The two of us had a great time with our car buddies, Shelley (my efy co-worker) and Jessica (went to Wicked with me). Our entire choir was more bonded afterward.


We had auditions after our concert this last week, and my friend Snake from the ward tried out, and he made it in. He won't be able to come to our Wednesday practices, so it's my job to tape record the practices and then do practice with him one-on-one at his house. I'm excited to work with him; he's a really great guy.

I asked a girl on four dates tonight. Her name is Natasha and she's in my ward. She's in a marriage prep class and has an assignment to go on four dates with the same person. She was telling me this while I was playing bartender at my friend Mike's birthday party, mixing her a drink (non-alcoholic, of course). So as I was leaving the party, I suavely said, "Hey, Natasha, if you need any help with your homework, just call me."

"Did you have a specific class in mind?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"OK! I'll call you."Her enthusiasm was accompanied by a warning that this is quite the commitment and might require a lot of work and planning and time. I guess there are some tough stipulations. Meh. She seems like a cool girl, and what the heck else am I going to do with my weekends?

Well, besides the fact that Kelly stopped me at church and asked if it would be all right if we went on the date she accidentally stood me up on before Christmas. So I'm also going to do that next week. I'll probably let you all know how it goes.

I ordered pizza from Little Caesar's today. 25 pizzas. They're for my ward skating party this Saturday. I'm excited for it.

I clipped my nails for like an hour on a bus ride last week. I got them all short and perfect. Now I have an ingrown pinky nail. I always wondered why you can't get an ingrown fingernail, but now I know that you can. It's starting to turn green and I keep bumping it on stuff. OOOOOWWWW!

There's a job fair I'm going to tomorrow. I need a new job. Desperately.

Tomorrow night after choir practice I'm going to go with my new friends Chris and Garrett to watch them film something. They're going to shout in the square on campus, things like "I'm wearing women's underwear" and "I don't wear deodorant." The thing is, they're two of my favorite people in this ward. Very intelligent and aware of people and of current events. I could see myself living with those two. They are really cool. I try to hang with them whenever we have big ward functions. Garrett is the one who wrote about my fireside in his blog. Chris has set up a website similar to the hundred hour board, only where anyone can answer, and he wants me to be the editor. He's going to set up advertisements, and I will get 50% of any profits he makes off of it. That's pretty exciting. Everyone go there and ask or answer questions, ok?

My friend Alex passed this website along. It's my new favorite website, and you all should check it out.

The Mermaid called me up out of the blue to tell me she wanted to go to Costco. We went. I bought cheese, ham and cereal. It was a much more pleasant experience than the time I only bought vinegar and chili. We had a good talk. She had just broken up with a boyfriend, and talked for a substantial amount of time about how she needs a boyfriend who is more concerned with being good than being cool, and someone who is not materialistic but is more free with his things. I just nodded and said yeah, I could see her with someone like that. The girl is beautiful, but I never know what to think with her. One would have to fend off many other guys to really have anything with her.

I doubt I'll ever get around to talking fully about our roadtrip, so here are several of my favorite pictures from that time:


Over here on the left is when I was pretending to be seasick on the ferry. We had lots of fun on that ride.



This is me, Pinetree, Blueshorts, and Keri on our way into Seattle on the ferry. Seattle is the coolest city! I love the puget sound, and even fell into it!



I couldn't stop laughing about this campfire. It took us about an hour to light it. There was so much wind it kept getting blown out. Lad and I had to hold that tarp while Pinetree went through about 100 matches trying to get it lit. It was great.



This was our breakfast the morning of camping. You can't exactly tell, but we're on a cliff facing the ocean. It was a beautiful morning.




And here is my good buddy Pinetree playing on the beach at sunset. I didn't touch up this picture at all. Isn't it beautiful?






This is me being all contemplative at the same sunset a few minutes earlier. That has to be the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen. This was at Ocean Beach in San Francisco.




Pinetree again. This thing just got prettier and prettier.








That's me on the left and Pinetree on the right. I got kinda wet out there, but it was so worth it for these pictures, I think.





I loved how far out one could run on that beach. The tide was very low.










My dad sent me a coherent e-mail. It was the most lucid he's been in months. He said he printed out a copy of the letter I sent him and keeps it on him always. He says this is his new lease on life. I hope he takes full advantage of it. Thanks to those who have been praying for both of us.

I had a great talk with my bishop on Sunday for an hour and twenty minutes. I went in there to talk to him about my Dad and my hellish nightmares and my general ennui. He told me I might be depressed. I said I'd always been a very happy person. He said, "Well, yesterday I went to a seminar and it had three parts. first, we learned about homosexuality. Second, we learned about pornography. And third, we learned about depression. And the doctor who talked to us told us that there are two types of depression. Chemical depression, and then depression that is brought on by a trauma."

Well, I thought that was an interesting little preface. If you're new to reading my blog and haven't read all the archives, you might want to click here before you keep reading today's post, or you'll be like, WTF?

Anyway, it was interesting because I realized that the bishop was right. I have been suffering from depression. Not any permanent kind, but one I really need to work through. I also talked to him about the unfairness of things, that my dad can make bad decisions and in the end, I understand that he needs to be punished, but how could a loving God allow those of us who live righteously to be deprived of the ones we love because of the bad choices they make? The bishop told me a story that was the flip side of that, about how when he was twenty-nine, he almost left the church, but decided in the end to stick with it. And then recently one of his older children approached him and said that he was so grateful for the decision his dad made to stay in the church, because think of all the progeny that would be affected. And then suddenly I saw how it IS fair. That if we weren't allowed to have a negative impact on other people, we wouldn't be able to have a positive one, either.

I had gone to speak to the bishop with my perennial concerns about failure. I had been afraid to get close to people because I knew the bad choices I might some day make would eventually leave anyone I loved in a lot of pain they didn't deserve. But the bishop helped me to see that on the other hand, my failure to grow close to someone would deprive them of all the joy I could bring, and that in the end it's only a matter of personal choice and application of the atonement of Christ that will determine whether I'll bring more sorrow or joy into others' lives. So my new goal is to do good, to be proactive in helping others and focusing on their needs rather than trying to sort out my own life before I can begin to focus on anyone else. Because it won't happen that way.

Then I got around to that other topic. That whole "same-sex attraction" thing, to borrow the church's euphemism. I really hadn't planned to talk about it, but since he brought it up....

The bishop was incredibly informed. He had done a lot of praying and soul searching in the twenty-four hours since he had been to the seminar. He said that he's recently been dealing with another young man in my situation, and hadn't known what to tell him. He inspired me with his confidence in my ability to make good decisions. He astonished me with his perceptiveness into my character, and his compassion for my plight. And he gave me a paper to read. By a Dr. Jeff Robinson.

Dr. Robinson is a devout Latter-Day Saint psycho-therapist who has counseled innumerable young men and women who struggle with same-sex attraction. The paper the bishop gave me was in actuality a transcript of a discourse he had presented to a similar group of bishops a few years ago. The following is my own summary of that paper. It's not intended to be a condensed version of his work, but rather a showcase of the points I found most relevant to me.

The good doctor has found three characteristics that virtually all of his subjects have in common. First, they are highly emotionally sensitive. Second, they are above average in their intelligence and introspection. And third, they have an acute sense of right and wrong and a compulsion to do right. Check, check check, all of my gay friends who read this just went in their heads.

So, Dr. Robinson has this theory. He asserts that you take a young man with these three qualities, and you stick him in a society that teaches him to avoid sexualizing women, and he will build up protective walls against the future likelihood of that ever happening. Meanwhile, because of his emotional sensitivity, he begins to feel different from other boys. He wants to be rough-and-tumble, to be admired by the other children for his prowess, but begins to realize (and resent) that his strengths lie in other areas. Still, he watches those boys who represent what he wishes he were.

Then puberty strikes. And boys are aroused for the next several years. Pants too tight? Aroused. Pants too loose? Aroused. Bumpy car ride? Aroused. The boy walks around aroused by everything in his environment.

Now, the "normal" boy, because of social messages he's received, and because he is captivated by the differences between them and himself, begins to dwell on the female body, and it becomes directly linked to his sexuality.

For an example of how much the societal influences affect our sexuality, Dr. Robinson points out that in some African cultures, fat women are attractive. In others, women are more sexually attractive to men if they are missing their front teeth, if they have their necks stretched out by rings, or if their earlobes are pulled down to their lips. Obviously, sexuality is influenced a lot more than we like to think by what our society teaches us.

For this exceptional boy, something goes askew at this juncture. Because of the messages he's received from society, he is not letting himself dwell at all on the female body. And because of the differences between himself and other boys, he is fixated on them at this point in his life where things are becoming sexual. His body learns to have sexual responses to males instead of females.

Now, of course, he doesn't want this to happen. But the moment he notices that it's happening and labels it, he's cementing it. "Oh, no. I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay."

If this were a wound, contends Dr. Robinson, we would give it time to heal on its own. If it were a disease we could medicate it. If it were a syndrome we would seek treatment. But it's not those things. It's something we've learned. To get rid of it would be like his saying "Rudolph the red-nosed" without your thinking "reindeer." Your brain has learned that and that's what it's going to keep doing.

That doesn't mean it's impossible. If you did want to stop thinking "reindeer," you would have to replace it with something else. So you might try to say "Rudolph the red-nosed buffalo." Repeat five thousand times.

Now here's the problem with these introspective, hyper-sensitive, highly intelligent, perfectionist boys: "buffalo. buffalo. buffalo. buffalo. buffalo. reindeer. Oh, crap! I just said reindeer again! I always say reindeer! I guess I'm just a reindeer person! I'll always be stuck on reindeer!" And now he just said "reindeer" lots of extra times.

What he should say is "buffalo. buffalo. buffalo. reindeer. oh, I used to say that a lot. buffalo. buffalo." The more he kicks against it, the more it has hold over him, like the man struggling to his death in quicksand.

Dr. Robinson says that most of the young men who come to see him approach their homosexual attractions like a knight approaches a dragon. They think they need to charge the dragon, exchange blows, get a bit scorched, but in the end, though they lie bleeding, singed, and muddy, the dragon will be vanquished and they will be alive to tell of it. The reality is that the best way to deal with this dragon is just to fend it off, retreat a step, keep that shield up, step back again, and again, and again, until you're far enough away that you can just turn your back on the dragon and walk away. He'll probably always be a speck on the horizon, but he'll no longer be a nuisance.

The conclusion Dr. Robinson's speech brought tears to my eyes. He says he tells his patients that if he had a pill in his cabinet that would cure them of homosexuality, he wouldn't give it to them. When they invariably ask why not, he tells them that he's sure Heavenly Father has just such a pill, and that he's sure they've asked for it, and that He's always said no. He said that in the end it would be this struggle that would help us to reach exaltation. That these young men are the sort that he feels would fall to pride without this burden to anchor them down, that they would be the very ones to do great things to the point where they wouldn't feel a need to use the atonement, and that Satan targets them precisely because of all the potential they have to do good. And he also asserts that we can still do that good, if we can learn to walk away from the dragon.

The bishop is going to talk to Dr. Robinson to try to arrange for me to meet with him. I am so excited. I feel he really understands these issues, and can really help me in my own quest to do what's right.

I read the paper in the bathroom right before my shower yesterday. Then I had to run out for FHE (Sharkbite was like, "Smurf! Shoes and socks now!" Funny how my FHE dad sounds just like my real parents two decades before) , and I accidentally left the paper on the back of the toilet. I went and watched 24 with Kip and Wiggle and Jessica after that, and half-way through I remembered the paper and could think of nothing else. When I got back, Sharkbite was the only one home. He talked with me about all the normal things (politics, women, why he doesn't fit in), and when I finally found a covert moment to nip into the bathroom to retrieve the discourse, I found that it was gone. Awkward. I have no idea what he would have done with it, what he might have thought of it, or why he would filch it, but oh, well. Maybe it's something he needs more than I do. HA!

Ok, I'm going to finish this beast off with some pictures of my choir trip. Hope you enjoy!


This is Shelley beating me at air hockey. I had to whip off my tie in the middle of the game, and Jessica said it was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen me do, so I did it several times. We got in trouble for taking pictures in here.





Here's me eating chinese food. Did you know I once went several months without using a fork? Chopsticks only for me, thank you. For everything from steak to macaroni and cheese. I love chop sticks. I was posing for the picture, by the way. I don't really eat like that. Embarassing!







<<-----Over here you can see the courtyard of my friend Tara's house. The place was beautiful! This is where all the girls from the choir stayed.


And here----->>
you can see the living room. The view was incredible, but the place didn't really feel like one you could live in.




At the outlet mall, we were really bored, so Shelley and I got some sidewalk chalk and a bouncy ball at KB Toys and started a rockin' game of four square. Shelley kept hitting strangers. This was yet another opportunity to whip my tie off all seductively.





This is me and Shelley pretending we play the piano.









Here's me and Jessica. Shelley took this picture because we looked like an old married couple in it. I'm in the T-shirt because my neck got really terribly painful burns on it from whipping my tie off so many times. TOO sexy! TOO sexy!


Tara's mom had me peel the tomatoes for the guacamole, so I put on a little cooking show for the choir members. They said aloud what they thought I was thinking, as well as the thoughts of the tomatoes. From left to right we have Brett, Lisa, Married Brett, Treanna, and Ryan.



And finally, no, that is not a dead marmot on that woman's head. It is her actual hair, and I hate it. And also I love it. Shelley and Jessica had to take the picture with this woman in the background at the assisted living center just so we would could look at it whenever we want. Thank you, ladies. I hope you all love and hate it as much as I do.