On to the next book: from Capote tragedy to Mailer's Jesus

I walked over to Gullifty's on Murray Avenue in Squirrel Hill last night for dinner, a few drinks, and the unique condition of being totally alone with my thoughts (and my book--more on that in a moment) yet surrounded by conversations and boisterous activity simultaneously. The weekend left me feeling quite isolated and uncertain of myself--uncertain of my value to myself or indeed to others. I had to get out. When I arrived, I was disappointed to find that, first of all, there was no room for me at the bar, and secondly that everyone seated at the bar was there to watch the Steelers game--a bit more in the way of boisterous activity (and spontaneous screaming) than I had counted on. I could've fled to the coffee shop but that would have been bad form; the bartender, who I know, had already seen me come in. Besides, I was starving for real food. I sat alone at a cocktail high-top and opened my new book, 'The Gospel According to the Son' by Norman Mailer--a hypothetical account of the life of Jesus as related by Jesus Himself, employing a more straightforward, unambiguous language than we associate with much of the New Testament. (For the record, the only other Mailer piece I'd ever read was an extensive interview with Madonna--the pop star, not the Blessed Mother, just to clarify.)

Many of us suppose, perhaps, that Jesus must always have been aware of His importance, His magnificent appointment on Earth--His transcendent fluid existence bridging life and death, Heaven and Hell, God and humankind.  In Mailer, here is a Jesus who seems detached from and somewhat nonchalantly ambivalent about--at times humbly unimpressed with--His divine purpose, a spectator of his own life. (Henceforth, then, I will leave him un-capitalized.)  This lack of condescension and self-righteousness is quietly revolutionary in its approach to a most sacred, unchallengeable account of the very theological continent upon which all of Christianity was constructed.  Of course, as a reader I would like to encounter Jesus as a modest and humorous young carpenter's apprentice, walking beside him on the dusty desert roads of human experience with all its sufferings and filth rather than the incomprehensible glowing perfection of some abstractly magic Heaven offering promises I will not accept.

Jesus the youthful bearded carpenter--what pride Mailer's Jesus took in his craft! Here is God grounded to the earth, to the trees, fruit of the soil. Here's a welcome intersection of scriptural Christianity and my admitted pantheist leanings--Jesus the tree-hugging hippie inside every bleeding heart willing to invite him in a bit. Thank the cosmos that Jesus had been a skilled woodworker friendly with fishermen, at home on an open sea where nets are cast for the promise of abundance, rather than some ambitious and sly apothecary or sneaky merchant of Oriental curiosities in the Nazarene markets. Then, at the age of thirty, as nearly I am now, the transformation in the River Jordan: immersion in brown water by John the Baptist, cousin of Christ (and another fairly grungy man presaging the hippie aesthetic). The man loved the desert and the sea, worked with his hands, hung with scoundrels and flesh-selling low ladies, embraced his own humanity--what's not to like here?!

Fifty pages into the book, I'm overcome by a warm and certain sense of peace along with a touch of scholarly purpose, already preparing the notes for this post. One of the low-functioning adults who works at Giant Eagle across the street squeezes in beside two men at the bar in Steelers garb and is instantly at home with them--accepted, valued, not spoken down to. It's rare to see individuals living with obvious mental impairments warmly embraced in the company of those we consider "normal," and the humanity of the occasion lifts my heart. By the end of dinner and my second drink, I realize that I'm watching the football game behind the bar and--gasp--actually paying attention to it! What the hell is wrong with me?

"Where life's headed, I have no way of knowin'..."

That's a line from a Tom Petty song ('Time To Move On' from the album Wildflowers), and it's also an all-too-common worldly theme--or fearful preoccupation, anyway--that I've been contemplating for the last few weeks with increased intensity and frequency. I'm going to be thirty in May. I have no idea where I'm going to live next year. I don't know whether to run the full Pittsburgh Marathon or just half of it again. (Sounds like a trivial concern, but that's a big difference when it comes to the necessary discipline and training.) I want to really push my skills and challenge myself as a skydiver in the coming year but it's going to be very difficult to find the time or the resources to make it happen. My full-time job is...well, just a job, a means of paying the rent and enjoying the rare privilege of better-than-average health insurance. Then there's this reliable old curmudgeon of a life-narrative trope, if you will: I've been single for my entire adult existence now, and despite the fact that I am absolutely ready to transition into my thirties--a decade that will, with any luck, prove to be the best ten years of my life to date--, I am keenly aware that my chances of finding love, even short-term companionship with benefits (use your imagination...), are very slim. Of course, I'm concerned as well about the responsibility of carrying on the family name. If I don't conceive children, the Jehn name dies when I die. That's a really intimidating, frightening situation to have to face. Alas, so much to offer--at least I'd like to think so--, and no takers, as always. (Forgive me my indulgence of a little melodrama.) You know, I'm really just goddamned sick of my perpetual aloneness and apparent undesirability, frankly--sick of thinking about it, more accurately, because if I were more comfortable in my own skin--more accepting of my current prescribed role in this world, more grateful for my countless blessings, less inclined to constantly compare myself to other people and crucify my own character as it consistently fails to meet the impossible expectations of our vulgar culture--, I'd be a far happier person.

Just so I won't lose you in eye-rolling frustration at my brooding, my two or three loyal readers, I'll end by listing some of those aforementioned blessings. I'm grateful to have my friend Greg, who has turned me on to sharing tea on Murray Avenue a few times a week (rather than hitting the bar and spending four times the money). I'm grateful for my friend Amanda who has stuck with me through thick and thin for almost ten years now. I'm grateful for my family. I'm grateful that I was able to include three pieces of art in last Friday's Arbor Aid show, which drew over 500 guests and scores of spectacularly talented woodworkers and craftspeople. I'm grateful that I made five skydives on Sunday and finally earned my B license. I'm grateful that I'll be an uncle in February. I'm grateful that I have a best friend who will always be my best friend, at least until the day that one of us keels over; how many people can say that?! I'm grateful for all the friends unmentioned here. I'm grateful that I survived my dark episode in October. I'm grateful that I can go out and run seven or eight miles if I want to. I'm grateful that I'm healthy. I'm grateful that Squirrel Hill Magazine publishes an article penned by me in almost every issue. (Unpaid, but potentially crucial in the event of a future job prospect.) Hey, you know, this list could go on and on. That's a good thing, right?!