May the Faith be with you

I have been studying acting for about 14 years now -- full fledged devotion to the craft. I have improv training, mask training, commedia del’art training -- I have studied Stanislavski and Bolislavski’s methods. I have trained in Stasberg, Suzuki, Bogart, Linklader, Atlantic, Meisner, Adler, and many other approaches. I’ve done everything from Shakespeare and Moliere to Mamet and Bogosian. I’ve slept outside in the snow in order to get into the mind of a homeless character I was playing and I’ve appeared fully nude onstage. I can cry on cue and I’ve kept the show going despite nosebleeds (mine) and seizures (not mine). I’ve learned from some of the best acting teachers in the business from New York to LA to some of the best and worst regional theatres in the United States. I’ve been micro-directed, and I’ve ad-libbed iambic pentameter.

In 14 years of training, there’s only one thing I’ve learned about acting -- it requires absolutely no training.

An incredibly famous little green muppet once said, “you must unlearn what you have learned.”

Apparently, Yoda was with the Royal Shakespeare Company before he became a jedi master. Any acting teacher worth his salt will tell you that acting isn’t about learning anything -- it’s simply a matter of getting past yourself. To act, you must forget everything you’ve ever learned because, well...because you’ve learned a lot of crap over the course of your life.

Really, when you break it down...acting is just lying. It is the art of lying -- and we can ALL do that. I’m not sure if we’re born with the knowledge of how to lie convincingly or if it’s something we develop. Either way, most 5 year olds are experts. Learning to act is just a matter of getting all the junk out of the way -- untraining our minds to believe all the garbage we’ve learned over the years about acting.

“And what is all that junk?” you ask -- doubting my sincerity.

“Well,” I explain, “that’s kinda difficult to answer.”

“Mmmm hmmm,” you say. (Clearly I’m just trying to make a point...acting isn’t REALLY about unlearning)

But it is. Put someone on a stage and ask them to say a few lines. Ninety nine times out of a hundred nothing about their performance will seem realistic. Now, you might go up and make suggestions to them: “don’t stand so rigid” “say it like this” “speak up.” But you would only be exacerbating the problem. It’s a matter of your viewpoint -- if an acting performance is something to be perfected, a mechanical process where there is a perfect, ideal example that should be duplicated, then yes...additional information for the actor to take into account is helpful. But that’s not what acting is. Acting is an organic, artistic expression. The best thing you can do for the actor is figure out WHY he’s being rigid, why he’s saying it wrong, why he’s being quiet...and remove those inhibitions.

At one point in my acting training, I had to learn how to sing. One of the first things I discovered was that my breathing was wrong. Apparently, babies breathe correctly, but over the years, most people develop unhealthy breathing patterns which are not conducive to singing. It’s the result of posture, body image, yelling, and I’m sure many many other things. So the first thing one has to do to begin singing well is unlearn how to breathe.

In fact, most of the artforms are more about unlearning everything that gets in our way than it is about mastering every last little detail.

I’ve been trying to view faith as an artform lately. Not necessarily because I’m convinced that it is one, but because I wonder if I might learn something about faith by viewing it as an artform -- something to be practiced, to attempt to do with excellence, to find new and unconventional ways of expressing.

Is faith something we should be unlearning?

I’d wrestled with this idea for a few days, before...well, to be honest...totally forgetting about it. And then today I had a conversation with a man of prayer. I was complaining about the church, and all it’s many problems -- something I often do. And this man of prayer gets all riled up along with me and says something that catches my attention. He says that so much of our faith is a legacy passed down to us from the experiences of others. It becomes limiting because somebody sets down the “rules” by which God choses to manifest His love. God heals, but not amputees. So we adopt a faith that says God does this but not this. I could give you a hundred examples of this...but I think it would only end up being limiting in and of itself. Just understand, please, that your understanding of God is so frustratingly limited that you’re not even capable of faith the size of a mustard seed.

This man of prayer went on to say that maybe we should be unlearning everything we’ve learned in church.

The guy had my attention. This is the kind of anti-establishment, mystical, artistic mumbo-jumbo that gets me goose-stepping.

The more and more pastors teach us about the “rules” that God plays by the more they are limiting Him. This isn’t to say we should all shave our heads, put on potato sacks and move to the desert trying to clear our minds and think of nothing (stay puft marshmallow man). The best acting teachers will teach you how to remove the obstacles. Hopefully, the best pastors will teach you how to remove the obstacles too.

The trick may be finding a pastor that believes you should be unlearning instead of just piling on more and more “to do” and “don’t do” lists. You may want to check the Dagoba system.

Axe Trotsky

You may not like Trotsky. You may despise him and everything he stands for. Or perhaps you have no idea who he is. Whatever you think, on February 27th, 1940 he said something extremely simple. It’s something you’ve probably heard people say many times over the course of your life. You may even have heard someone say it this week. But I would argue that because of who Trotsky was, he said it best. No one will ever utter those three little words as profoundly or as poetically.

When I was seventeen years old I worked at Baskin Robbins. I had zits and I was failing US History because I couldn’t be bothered to do stupid things like my homework.

When Leon Trotsky was seventeen, he was in prison in Siberia.

Sorry...I’m gonna back up a few steps. For anyone out there who hasn’t heard of Leon Trotsky...shame on you. This man is easily one of the most influential people in the last 100 years. When you and your buddies crack open a few beers and start talking about “leaving your mark on the world” you’re probably not even imagining having as much of an impact as this guy did.

So, when Trotsky way sent to Siberia, you know what charges this 17 year old kid was convicted on? Organizing a labor union.

After a couple of years, Trotsky managed to escape from Siberia...which I’m under the impression is kinda like escaping from Alcatraz...if Alcatraz was surrounded by thousands of miles of sub-zero degree wastelands. This begins his first period of exile from Russia. For five years, Trotsky lived in London writing for a communistic magazine written by other Russian exiles. The magazine was smuggled back into Russia and aimed to get the people all riled up for a revolution.

Then, Trotsky smuggled himself back into Russia -- to lead the Revolution. It’s important to not that the two other major Russian figures were NOT actually directly involved in the revolution of 1905. Lenin was still out of the country, calling the shots in an age without cell phones. Trotsky was the man who was putting his ass on the line. As for Stalin -- he was just some punk kid at the time. He took part in the revolution the same way you’re “sticking it to the man” by buying a Rage Against the Machine album.

And by 1907, two short years later, Trotsky was caught and shipped back to Siberia. Is it just me, or was that just a bad idea in the first place...sending a guy to a prison he’s already escaped from once. History makes no indication of whether or not blueprints of the Siberian prison were tattooed all over Trostsky’s body, so we are forced to assume that they were. Oh yeah, and he totally escaped. Did I forget to mention that?

So then, Trotsky spends the next ten years bouncing around from country to country, spouting off about how people in power are jerks and they’re taking advantage of the little guy. Only he called them “the proletariat” instead of “the little guy.” You’re probably thinking...well, he must have been a big jerk if they kept kicking him out of the country. Yep...big ole jerk. Only a real asshole would suggest people share ALL their possessions (that they worked hard for, dammit) with those around them who are less fortunate...assholes like Jesus and St. Paul...who were also pretty unpopular with...well...everybody who preferred to hold on to their possessions thank you very much.

In 1917, the czarist government finally crumbled, and Trotsky returned to his home country of Russia. Lenin became the first Head of State in the newly christened USSR, and Trotsky was his right hand man. Unfortunately, seven years later (1924), Lenin died. There was a bit of a scramble over who would succeed Lenin. To everyone’s surprise, that person turned out to be Stalin.

From that point onward, Trotsky is slowly expelled from more and more of his positions until in 1928, four years after Lenin’s death...he is expelled from the country for the third and final time.

I’m gonna stop now to do a little math. So, once this guy started, you know...fighting for his right to party, he spent only a whopping thirteen years in the country he was fighting for. To put this in perspective, imagine if after America won the Revolutionary War, Thomas Jefferson kicked George Washington out of the country. That’s pretty much what it’s like...except Jefferson would also have to go on a murderous rampage and kill every single one of George Washington’s family members, friends, supporters, alleged supporters, and...well...a whole lot of other people.

You see, Trotsky was a communist. Communists believe that wealth should be distributed equally and everybody should pitch in and earn their keep. Stalin was a dictator. Dictators believe that wealth should be distributed equally and that everybody should pitch in to make sure that the dictator’s life is more awesome. So when Trotsky and people like him start saying, “woah woah woah...hold up...I thought we were going for communism here,” Stalin had a bit of a temper tantrum.

And by temper tantrum, I mean Josef Stalin killed more people than Adolf Hitler. He killed anyone who opposed him. He killed anyone who didn’t enthusiastically support him. He killed people for being popular with the people. And he especially killed anybody who liked Trotsky. And while Stalin was busy killing anybody who’d ever so much as seen a picture of Trotsky, Trotsky kept right on opposing Stalin.

So, seriously...take this all in for a second. Imagine that you had lived a pretty hard life...you went to jail for the first time at 17. You spend the majority of your adult life in exile from the country you’ve spent your entire adult life fighting for. The ideals you fought for are being corrupted by a man who was once your friend. Furthermore, every other friend you’ve ever had has been assassinated by this man. And imagine if every single member of your family was assassinated with the exception of ONE grandchild and your wife (this includes children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews) -- this is factual information, check your history books. Imagine if you are kicked out of every country that takes you in -- this time not because you’re pissing them off, but because they’re THAT scared of Stalin. Imagine you...wait...seriously...are you imagining this? As if it were happening to you? Do it! Everyone you love, everyone you have EVER loved has been murdered in cold blood BECAUSE they’re related to you.

And you know that Stalin has already deployed assassins to hunt you down and kill you. You don’t know who they are, or when they will come...only that they are well trained and they will succeed. It is only a matter of time. Very, very short time.

Imagine that you are an atheist and you do not believe that there is anything beyond this. The only life you will ever know is that of exile, failure to bring freedom to your people, and the murder of everyone you’ve ever cared about -- that is all there is.

A few months before his death, Trotsky wrote:

“Natasha has just come up to the window from the courtyard and opened it wider so that the air may enter more freely into my room. I can see the bright green strip of grass beneath the wall and the clear blue sky above the wall, and sunlight everywhere.

Life is beautiful.”

And it makes me think -- if this man, an atheist who experienced nothing but grueling torment and pain his entire life and knows that assassins are literally on their way to kill him as he’s writing this, can say “life is beautiful” then what right do I have to ever EVER suggest that it might not be so.

For the record, Trotsky was also Batman. On August 20, 1940 Ramon Mercader smashed a mountain climbers axe into Trotsky's skull. The assassin attacked Trotsky from behind while Trotsky was writing (a biography of Stalin, how awesome is that?) Trotsky stood up, turned around and spit in Mercader's face. Then, he beat the crap out of his assassin -- actually overpowering him with a MOUNTAIN CLIMBER'S AXE STICKING OUT OF THE BACK OF HIS SKULL. He died a full day later.

Whether you like his ideas or not. Whether you think he was a hero or a villain, you have to admit two things:

1) That's pretty badass.

2) Life is beautiful.

How to be Happy (abridged)

My favorite movie is Aliens -- the James Cameron one -- the sequel. I always have to clarify that; people get confused. Alien, the original, was made by Ridley Scott. I believe that the sequel is superior to the original. When we were kids, my brother and I were just as likely to pop in Aliens on a Saturday morning as we were to watch cartoons. As I got older and entered the filmmaking profession, Aliens never became stale. It is beautifully made. It ranks #54 in IMDb’s list of best movies of all time. Rotten Tomatoes lists it as one of an extremely few movies with a 100% fresh rating. A few years ago, Entertainment magazine named it the second best action flick of all time. So, as my other childhood favorites seemed more and more childish, Aliens seemed to grow with me. The more I matured, the more I learned about filmmaking, the more my respect and admiration for Aliens grew.

Recently, I have had a hankerin’ to watch Aliens again...to reconnect with my childhood friends Hicks, Hudson, Vasquez and the rest of the bunch. The only problem is, no one wants to watch it with me. My friends are all busy -- and who can blame then? We are adults now. We lead busy lives: work, romantic relationships, side-projects, etc etc etc. Nobody has time to watch a movie with me...or at least one that Apple Movie Trailers hasn’t been advertising lately.

I was over at my dad’s house the other day. He was showing me old pictures of myself and we were all laughing at how goofy I used to look. My clothing choices in particular were ridiculous, but my hair was also pretty stupid looking (I used to bleach a section in the front). After everyone had their fill of laughter and made their way out of the room, I stayed behind to look at the pictures a bit more. Time moved forward -- I got less skinny, my fashion sense improved, and different girls started popping up in the pictures next to me.

And then one particular girl -- picture after picture. Posing for the camera, making faces at each other, chilling out on the couch in pajamas, play fighting, playing practical jokes on other family members -- as I kept clicking on the next picture, our relationship got closer and closer, and you could tell we grew more and more comfortable with each other.

I broke up with that girl.

I’m confident in that decision. She’s better off now. I’m better off now. Or am I?

In many senses, I am. Or at least, I will be. This was not the girl for me. Of that, I am certain...but looking through those pictures, it’s hard not to get nostalgic. Back then I had someone who cared about me. I had someone to share my hopes, fears, and dreams with. And, most importantly, I had somebody to watch Aliens with.

It was after I left my father’s house that I broke down. I cried the whole way home. It’s funny how we do that, isn’t it? We manage to keep it together as long as we’re around other people, but once we get alone...that is when we can no longer contain the feelings of hurt. Why did I hurt? Why was I even upset. It was hard to put a finger on it. Looking at those pictures made me feel alone. It reminded me that I used to have something that I don’t have anymore -- and I don’t mean the girl. What I don’t have is a companion, and honestly, what stings me the most -- for some bizarre reason -- is the fact that I don’t have anyone to watch Aliens with. I do not know why, but we humans are wired for community. We have this innate desire to share the things we find most precious. We WANT to trust each other. I want to show you Aliens, not because I want to watch it, but because I see you gripped with fear when Ripley and Newt are locked in a room with the face-huggers. I want to hear you laugh when Hudson says, “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to current events, but we just got our asses kicked, pal.” I want to see you on the edge of your seat as Hicks checks the ceiling. And I want to hear you cheer when Ripley says, “get away from her you bitch!” More than I want to watch the movie -- I want to know that something that is special to me is also special to you. It is this knowledge -- that deep down, people just want to love and be loved -- which keeps me from becoming completely cynical and pessimistic.

I’ve been thinking a lot about not wanting what you don’t have and how I need to apply that to my life. If I do not have it, I am not supposed to want it. I should be happy with what I have. Right now, I do not have a girlfriend, therefore I should not want a girlfriend. And yet, here I am...stupid water coming out of my eyes because I want a girlfriend so badly. It was after midnight when I left my dad’s house. I called the only friend I thought might be awake.

The Jason called me back within five minutes. He told me something I thought was pretty profound. He said that there’s two ways to interpret Psalm 37:4 (delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart). The way I’ve always translated it is “Look to God for your fulfillment, and he’ll give you all the things that you desire.” The trick, then, is to REALLY delight in Him so that you can get all the cool stuff you’ve been desiring. Of course...if you’re just out for the cool stuff, you’re not really delighting in Him, now, are you? I was always pretty sure that’s the only way that could be interpreted.

But what if we see it like this: “Find your delight in God, and he will create Godly desires in you.”

This is just an interpretation. I make no claims that the Jason was right, nor do I necessarily believe that this is the “correct” way to interpret this verse. I just don’t know much of anything, to be perfectly honest.

So the Jason tells me that perhaps, if I’ve been delighting in the Lord, my desire for a companion is God given. This makes me feel better...but I’m still not sure...this doesn’t quite jive with my current brand of theology.

The funk lasts a few days.

I get a text from a certain Russian friend of mine. I’ll transcribe it verbatim (except in places where embellishing it will make it more interesting.)

“Yo kid. U doing ok?” she asks...totally out of the blue.

“What makes you ask?” I reply. What I’m thinking is, “Wow...really...wow.” Sometimes, and it’s really amazing when this happens...you’ll be in a depression and God will just come through and show you that you really are loved.

“I noticed it the other day at Amelie’s,” she said. (Amelie’s is a cafe in Charlotte...a great one, I might add) “Did something happen? Girl trouble?”

“No girl troubles,” I say, “I have been a bit bummed out, though.”

“Why?”

“I’m not really sure to be honest...I’m just moody maybe.”

“I saw it last night. I told myself I’m not gonna hang out with Austin anymore.”

Allow me to go off on a bit of tangent:

In texas hold ‘em poker, they call a seven/two off-suit “the hammer.” They call it this because it’s the worst hand in poker. Anyone who would stay in the pot with those two cards is an idiot. So...if a 7, a 7, and a 2 pop up on the river...you’re not expecting anybody to have a full house. But sometimes, when you think you’ve won, when you are already counting all the money you’ve made -- somebody brings down “the hammer.”

I find it’s especially painful when a Russian brings down the hammer.

I already felt alone. I felt like I was companion-less. I felt unloved. And then, I remember I have this Russian friend, who notices when I’m bummed out. Except that noticing that I was bummed out only made her want to avoid me...although, she did amend the statement a few moments later with “as long as he’s in this mood.”

And I have a sense that this is WRONG! I think we all do. When I am the biggest jerk. When I lash out. When I’m NOT fun to be around. When I BRING YOU DOWN. That is when I need you the most! I act like that because I need love. I need more and more and more of it. We know, as if by instinct...as if it’s not our head that tells us this, but our bones...no...the marrow of our bones:

LOVE IS UNCONDITIONAL

So how does that fit into my interpretation of the Biblical policy on “wanting what we do not have?” If I feel unloved, what is the solution? To stop wanting love?

Perhaps that is the answer. Perhaps I should be grateful for what little love I have and stop trying to obtain more. After all, I really do not have time to seek out more love. A few minutes ago, I found the to-do-tomorrow list I made for myself. It reads:

1. Finish watching “Che”
2. Finish reading “The Zen Teachings of Jesus”
3. Begin “The Communist Manifesto”
4. Pray
5. Practice Russian
6. Color correct the film project I’m working on.
7. Give up stupid “Pride” theory in favor of infinitely superior “fear” theory.
8. Make Space Needle reservation and book private jet.
9. Plaster my face with raw meat and eat twelve cucumbers
10. Bark like a dog.
11. Make one prank phone call to Ireland.
12. Try out the “match burn twice” trick on myself, to make sure it works.
13. Tell at least one woman she’s beautiful, “in a metaphorical sense.”
14. Insult a squirrel in Japanese
15. Give Chris a noogie (if I can reach)
16. Move all my money to Swiss Bank account: PG7942-86K
17. Apologize profusely to EVERY Black person I see for the sins of my forefathers.
18. Tell Canada he’s funny -- so his ego will expand.

After number six the handwriting had changed. My assumption is that the bottom twelve were either written by my friend Canada or somebody who’s a REALLY big fan of his...probably the latter.

That brightened my day, and the fact of the matter is...I have no reason to be depressed. I wallow in self pity because I chose to see the negative around me.

Ultimately, I think the reason we want what we don’t have is that we think that it will make us happy. And when that thing (or that person) fails to make us happy...we assume it must be something else that will make us happy. So we always want what we do not have.

Eastern traditions suggest that happiness comes from within. Those silly easterners...they’ve got such goofy ideas. We Christians call this “joy.” The only difference is that we say it comes from God (who is TOTALLY not within us, right? I mean, Jesus never said ANYTHING that would suggest that God lives within us). Sadly, the big problem (in my never-humble opinion) is that Christians believe that joy and happiness are two totally different things. Joy comes from God. Happiness comes from external sources.

Oh?

You could have fooled me.

I choose to be depressed. I choose to believe that I am not loved, despite the fact that my to-do-today list is screaming “YOU ARE LOVED” at me in big, all capital letters.

There is a big, ugly, rusty car parked in front of my house. It breaks down fairly often, but my grandmother bought it for me. I might as well paint “YOU ARE LOVED” in big red letters along the side of that car.

Tonight, my friends threw me a party to celebrate the release of a movie I acted in. They brought cake, too.

You see...there’s this cup, and it’s filled about halfway with water...

A few nights after I came home from my dad’s house crying, my roommate watched Aliens with me. He was gripped with fear when Ripley and Newt were locked in a room with the face-huggers. He laughed when Hudson said, “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to current events, but we just got our asses kicked, pal.” He was on the edge of her seat as Hicks checked the ceiling. And he cheered when Ripley said, “get away from her you bitch!”

If we delight ourselves in the Lord, he gives us the desires of our hearts. The funny thing is, I didn’t even want a girlfriend. I just wanted to share a movie-watching experience with a friend. I just wanted some companionship. And, let me tell you...I may not have a girlfriend...but I’ve got companionship everywhere I look. And furthermore...I own Aliens...that’s not wanting anything I don’t already have.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of things to do tomorrow.

I think I’ll start with making a prank phone call to Ireland.

Oh, and if anybody out there ever needs somebody to watch Aliens with...you just let me know. I would be honored to.

In Soviet Russia good titles have trouble thinking up you!

“What are you passionate about, Katushka?”

‘So, an American gets into a convertible Mini-Cooper with two Russians.’ That’s how the joke begins -- the setup. We know where it’s going now. When Russians and Americans get together...there is always tension...always deception. I know three Russian sisters, but the oldest isn’t here in the car. Irina, Katerina, Tanya. I rarely call them by their given names.

Kat doesn’t quite seem to understand how to answer the question.

“...cause Tanya seems to be passionate about, like, fashion,” I explain. “High society, stuff like that. And Irka, she’s passionate about aesthetics -- painting, drawing, beautiful things. You’re so quiet though...so I can’t quite tell what you’re passionate about.”

Kat is the middle of these three Russian sisters, and is very much overshadowed by them. Irina, the oldest (my age), is loud and fun; the kind of person who never seems to enters a party without knowing someone and never leaves the party without knowing everyone. Tanya is the youngest, 18 (but she looks about 14). She’s a fireball. The ‘don’t take no shit from nobody’ type -- but in a girly, sleek, sophisticated, posh way, of course. The sisters jokingly call her ‘Paris’. It’s probably a reference to the Illiad.

Kat, on the other hand, is much quieter. ‘Mild-mannered’ you might say -- if she turned out to be the alter-ego of a super hero. When the sisters are together (and they always are) Kat lets Ira and Tanya do the talking. She remains content to laugh happily and only occasionally interject.

Just a moment before Kat had said. “I really need to practice guitar.” I knew that she was taking drum lessons from a friend of mine, and she sometimes played guitar and sang quietly with my roommate on occasion...while I goofed off with the two noisier sisters. I was expecting her to talk about music; perhaps she would open up a bit about how music moves her, inspires her.

“You don’t know what I’m passionate about!” says Tanya from the back seat. “I’m not passionate about fashion! That’s not what I’m passionate about!”

“Alright, Tanichka, what are you passionate about?” I turn around and look at her.

“I don’t want to say, it’s embarrassing.”

Kat pipes up: “I’m passionate about helping people.”

I turn back around to the front, to face Kat.

“I really want to help people, especially kids. I’m just so passionate about that. You know? The ones who really need help. Need Jesus.”

“Hmm,” I said. And that’s pretty much what I meant: hmm... Just some non-desrcript, non-committal noise. I didn’t know what to think yet...other than: hmm...

“Yeah, I’m passionate about counseling,” says Tanya. “So many people who just need someone to listen to them and guide them. So after IHOP (the P stands for Prayer, not Pancakes...I asked) I want to go to Palm Beach, Florida.

“What’s in Palm Beach?”

“There’s this program there, for counseling.”

“Cool.”

This is not what they’re passionate about. This is not what gets their blood flowing. Kat may be quiet, but I know her better than this. And I certainly know little Tanichka better. They’re not lying, though. They believe that this is what they’re passionate about. Why? What interrupted the chain of events that dictates: ‘This is what I enjoy. This brings me great pleasure. This is what I am motivated towards...This is my passion.’

Long ago, someone was asked about their passions. That person responds with something pious -- something self sacrificial. “I am passionate about the Emperor’s new clothes! How beautiful they are!” Someone coos over this. How wonderful a person this is -- who’s very passion is on the behalf of others!

The Russians are there. They observe this. The Russians think...I want to be a wonderful person.

Another time, someone asks the Russians what they are passionate about. They are probably little girls at this time. They probably still live in Russia.

“Tantsevat!” (dancing!)

“Lyet!” (singing!)

“Moy Kooklya!” (my dolly!)

The expression on the face of the inquisitor is, “How cute. How childish.” The implication: how selfish.

And so people are taught in Russia, the same as America and every other part of the world, that good people’s passions are for helping others. Good people desire to make the world a better place.

We all want to be the good people. The alternative isn’t very appealing.

Only -- I already think the Russians are good people! They are my friends and I love them, regardless of how they answer some silly question! I just want to know what brings them to life, what they just can’t stop talking about.

“What are you passionate about, Reed?”

I could have been honest...in a million different ways. I could have said that I am passionate about storytelling...about arranging words or pictures or sounds in a way that it brings a tale to life...in a way that illuminates the world. The idea of conveying some truth to someone through an artistic medium -- through a tale -- fact or fiction -- turns me on. It is creative, it is communication. It is what I live for.

I could have said that I am passionate about learning -- filling my head with useless knowledge. The more useless the better. Trivia, and therefore trivial. I like knowing a bit more about how the world works. It’s not for any particular reason, just because I enjoy it. It means something to me.

I could have said that I am passionate about sex, specifically -- understanding it and learning about the opposite gender. What do women enjoy? What is is like for them: physiologically, psychologically? Why did God design such a bizarre act and why is it both seen as the ultimate expression of love and yet also something only a pervert would spend so much time thinking about?

But this would not make me seem pious. These, in fact, might make the Russians think less of me.

I told them about a trip I want to take. The goal of the trip being to learn about the poor people of the world and how to love them better. And the Russians cooed and told me how wonderful I must be and how excited they were for me to take this trip.

It was all true...I do want to take the trip...and every detail I mentioned was true. Only the part about it being what I’m passionate about was a lie.

My friend Canada says that everything he’s ever done his entire life he’s done out of fear. The things he’s done wrong -- fear. But also, the things he’s done right -- fear.

So I will go on my trip to learn about love and about the poor. And little Tanichka will go to IHOP and then Florida and counsel people And Katushka will find a way to help children. But don’t think that we do it because we’re wonderful. We do it because we’re afraid. We are afraid that if we don’t pretend that helping other people is our passion...we will be discovered. Someone will know that we are monsters. Someone will realize that we are the villains in the story, and then...the same thing will happen to us that always happens to villains.

No one will love us.