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About Just out. (Portland, OR) 1983-2013 | View Entire Issue (Sept. 2, 2011)
OREGON'S LGBTO NEWSMAGAZINE I stand in the middle of my apartment, the ceiling fan blowing sultry summer air onto my bare shoulders. In the corner of the room sits a table that my Buddhist altar once occupied; I look beneath it at a box containing the bell, incense and images that I considered sacred. Seeing these things, once so central to my life and now boxed up, strengthens my resolve— I pick up my phone, dial the number o f the local organizer for the international Buddhist group that counts me as a member. Or, rather, will count me as a member until today. I was recently given a very constructive criti cism of my writing: It wasn’t believable. People simply didn’t talk the way I wrote, situations didn’t unfold with such clear lessons. Even things that actually happened to me didn’t read as true. “But this is how I remember it happen ing!” I replied. Certainly, as a writer of creative nonfiction, I reserve the right to shape stories to make a point. However, the criticism alerted me to the real problem: I am so strongly com pelled to crystallize the facts into a neat, mean ingful package that even my memory gets overwritten in the crystallization. The realization of how flawed my memory and expression of it could be chilled me deeply, alerting me to a trait in critical need of fixing. Singer Roisin Murphy cooed back in 1999 that “you can’t hide from the truth / because the truth is all there is.” Au contraire, Roisin— I voices Losing My Religion remember to breathe IY NICK MATTOS I can no longer believe that the truth, capital T or otherwise, is exclusive— that it isn’t a great and diffuse thing, tantalizing and eluding us from just beyond the things we can see, un contained by any barrier we could try to put around it. hide from it all the time, condense it down into tiny pieces that I can swallow, recreate memories into something straightforwardly meaningful and in the process close my eyes as to w hat’s actually happening. However, here in my hot apartment, I’m no longer willing to close my eyes. The phone rings once, twice, three times. “This is C ourt ney!” the local leader’s recorded voice declares cheerfully. “Leave me a message!” Sociologists have many theories as to why people join groups, especially those o f a spiri tual purpose. I had my reasons to join this one years ago— I enjoyed the practice and the peo ple, resonated with their distinctive take on Buddhist philosophy, felt enthralled by the de nomination’s assertion that they were the only SEPTEMBER 2. 2011 not a member o f the group anymore. I’m no longer participating in the practice.” I take a deep breath, close my eyes. There are so many things I want to say— the only thing I have a problem with is thinking that this denomination is the only true religion, the questions o f life are vastly too complex and beautiful to limit them selves down to one answer. “But you, sweetie, you are just great. You are wonderful, and ev eryone in the Buddhist community is wonder ful. It isn’t about any of you.” I swallow heavily. “Thank you for everything. Goodbye.” Beep! The line goes silent. I open my eyes, overwhelmed and sweaty- palmed with the awareness that I can no longer profess to know rigid answers to life’s big ques tions. A sigh escapes my lungs and I look through the window at the summer day out side, know that I am looking into the white- hot fire o f a great mystery, a mystery that every day demands to be unraveled anew, in which every day 1 have to compose my own satisfac tory answers to the questions o f why? and what? and how? I walk over to the window, slide it wide open to welcome the world in. The * hot air rushes in against my face, and in the blast o f heat, I smile. JW pure and true Buddhist practice in the world today. Ultimately, though, I joined the group because it defined boundaries in an otherwise amorphous universe. I wanted it because it drew the lines that defined where the individu al ends and the rest o f the world begins. This particular Buddhist group did this in spades, offered me a map of myself and the world in precise detail that for a time was crucial for my sanity, with the sole requirement being that I accept it as the only accurate map in existence. Beep! Courtney’s voicemail invites me to leave a message. My throat is dry, my mind racing, words failing to come to my lips. “Uh, hi!” I stammer. “It’s Nick.” Perhaps there is such a thing as absolute, capital-T Truth; to be honest, I hope there is. I’m one of those people hardwired to crave a flag to march behind, an anthem to chant. I lowever, I can no longer believe that the truth, capital T or otherwise, is exclusive— that it isn’t a great and diffuse thing, tantalizing and elud ing us from just beyond the things we can see, uncontained by any barrier we could try to put around it. N ic k M a t t o s still thinks very fondly o f the “I’ve put a lot of thought into it,” I murmur group he left and o f religion in general. Email into the phone, “and, um ... 1 decided that I’m him at nickmattos@justout.com. y (DarcetteXV (Presents The 2011 IntemationaC LaTemme Magnifique LaTemme Magnifique (pfus (Pageant ' m a . j i /iy wntaátie REE TRIAL More local numbers: 1.800.777.8000 18+ w w w .in te ra c tiv e m a le .c o m Ahora en Español GuySpy FREE Mobile Chat www.GuySpy.com A p p S to re Leather and Fetish Gear and Apparel k u jL Sunday September 4, 2011 'pm - Ticíigts S JS.00 Oregon Convention ( enter 7 2 7 X 1 MLKJ r . Bird -Forcontestant info, or tickets: 5(H-222-S.US u*u ‘u.darceBeri.coi corn 8 ‘ 23 ‘i NE Fremont St Portland, OH 97220 Ml I n H r*
