Restroom KarmaThere's a man where I work who leaves a printout of a news story tucked in between the fourth stall and the fifth stall against the men's room wall every day. You can rely on it like you can a delivery of the Chicago Sun Times. One article. One or two pages folded twice. Every day. He chooses the topic--which ranges from tech to political, though never too techy and never too political. I don't know who this man is but he aims to please.

This morning, on my way to the men's room I noticed a woman's pale blue blouse resting on a table in the cafeteria. On the blouse was a large note that read "TAKE ME NEW". After giggling to myself over its accidental similarity to the naughty command "take me now", I was reminded of the tiny ways in which people give every day.

I have wondered about this restroom AP dispatcher. Has it gotten to the point where he feels like it's his duty (no pun intended) to deliver the news, that if he doesn't some folks will be disappointed? Are there men in the office who will be disappointed if they get to the fourth or fifth stall and find nothing to read? If he stopped, would someone else take the mantle?

Having a somehwat absurd sense of humor, I have contemplated putting out a second and third stall edition of my own. I've thought about leaving really bizarre news stories of highly specialized interest, or perhaps extreme left or right wing commentary. I've thought about leaving socialist publications or UFO news, just to keep people wondering about the freaky new news guy. I even considered writing my own anoymous newsletter--a piece of substantial daily satire, my geeky former-Lit-major nod to the 18th century broadsheet. It's circulation: probably 10 or 11 weirded out guys with their pants down around their ankles.

What is it about the real newspaper guy, or even the take-me-new lady? What is it about me and this weblog, which thus far has all anonymous readers? Why do some people feel compelled to give to the faceless like that? I love that it happens. I love the restroom guy. I think that within all of us is a great capacity to give. And I think we overlook the power of small gifts like this.

Ever notice that when you're driving along and someone flashes their highbeams to let you know there's a speed trap ahead, you almost always wind up warning the next car that comes along? Good inspires good. How many people in your lives have said one small thing--one pearl of wisedom, compliment, piece of advice or comment--that stuck with you for the rest of your life? When those comments stick, you pass them on at some point. They become a part of who you are and you share them with the world directly or indirectly. We are, each of us, the sum total of millions of unsolicited moments that have been shared with us--some good some bad.

And when you think about how the average person has offspring, and those offspring will have offspring, it is hard to grasp but it has to be true that the tiniest of moments, the tiniest kindness, can create a ripple effect that affects a thousand generations. In that respect, a good life, a life lived to set a good example and help others--even just your children--could do more to change the future of humanity than the life of your average movie star.

I realize this may seem extreme but I believe it to be true. And yes, what I'm saying is, in essence, my company's restroom newsie may not know it, but he's doing his part to save the world.

I Skull YouWon Hyo was a Buddhist monk born in 7th century Korea. When he was thirty-three years old, he journeyed to China to study under a great Buddhist teacher.

While on his journey, he crossed a desert. And one night in this dessert, he began to die of thirst. He crawled on his hands and knees, groping in the pitch blackness for a miracle, for some unseen oasis he could locate with his finger-tips. And before the sun began to rise, his fingers found a small bowl of water in the darkness. He didn’t know how or why it was lying alone in the dessert but Won Hyo didn’t care. It’s existence saved his life. He put the bowl to his lips and drank deeply. Then with gratitude and exhaustion he fell asleep.

When Won Hyo awoke, he examined his surroundings. He got a better look at the bowl he had drunk from, which in fact, was not a bowl. It was an overturned human skull, filled with filthy rainwater. Insects ate and burrowed through bits of rotting flesh. Upon seeing this, Won Hyo threw up. But as he vomited, he realized something.

In the evening, when he could not see the skull, it had given him life. During the day, only when he saw the skull with his eyes, and he let the idea of the skull upset his stomach did he get sick. And from that event, Won Hyo attained enlightenment.

You could find yourself in the dessert on your hands and knees someday, dying of thirst in the broad daylight. And you might encounter a rotting skull filled with filthy rain water. Would you drink from it? Or would you choose to move on, with the expectation that something more pure will present itself over the next dune? Or would you freeze with indecision, unwilling to die, yet unable to drink?

Time and Space
I walked past this one pocket of Chicago space today on my way back from buying a small bible for a prop at Books A Million! (or BAM! if you're incredibly stupid.) I was taken aback by this pocket of space, though to you it would not seem unusual at all. It was five feet of building foundation on Adams st. downtown, between My Favorite Muffin and a jewelry store called Sydel & Sydel.

I have what the white coats call temperal lobe epilepsy. It's a bizarre seizure disorder that I'm well medicated for, thank goodness. People with my brand of epilepsy tend to have certain personality traits in commmon. Among those traits is a marked interest or in some cases an obsession with time, time travel, time and space, etc. I have always loved time travel stories, and do have a certain pre-occupation with time, with the future and the past.

I stopped and stared at this space because it occured to me that in 1999, when I first moved to Chicago, when I took my very first trip downtown on a July weekday of that year, I leaned against the wall in that space and wrote in my journal. I was overwhelmed by the new city. I was excited, stunned, in awe. I had never lived in a city before--not a real one. I was unemployed, early for an appointment with a temp agency called A Personnel Committment. I was living in Hyde Park. I had no idea how to use the El. I didn't have enough money to get myself a coffee or a muffin. I just had time and I took it to write.

I have looked for that journal entry before, scoured my old notebooks and found nothing. But I remember vaguely what it was about. I wondered about this new life ahead of me. I waxed dreamily about the vastness of the city, and the beauty of the strange lives around me--each in the middle of his or her routine. I tried to look forward, to see what my routines would look like set against this white city's skyline. I tried to envision where I would be, and wrote about how impossible peering into that terrified mist was. But I knew that in a few years, I would have a new life, a new family, a totally new sense of home.

I was right. The crazy thing (crazy if you become pre-occupied with time and space easily) is that five feet from where I was standing was the jewelry store in which I would eventually have my grandmother's engagement ring repaired. I would then take that ring home to Genevra and propose to her on her birthday. Last night, while walking home from a late tech rehearsal with Genevra, I realized that my entire life has been reconfigured since that move, that everyone in my life, including my fiance, would have been a complete stranger to me had they shuffled past me into My Favorite Muffin that July morning in 1999.

This is not the first time that I've become obsessed with a space and the time that flows around it. The room we call The State Park at the Neo-Futurarium, specifically an old chair in that room has carried with it feelings of time travel and significance. I remember staring at it one day after I had been called back thinking "I didn't get cast. They're not going to cast me." There was a small seating area outside a restroom off the food court in a mall underneath the Prudential Building in Boston that for some reason became a place of relationship-related moments of significance. Four women. I was there with each of them for different reasons. I exited the bathroom and sat, waited for them, and then realized..."I've done this before." And that feeling struck me.

I have tried to find someone who identifies with these space/time moments and have not--at least not someone who feels it on such an emotional level. I've even had someone end a conversation with me abruptly because she thought I was being a weirdo. Oops. So I hesitate to go on.

But I do wonder fairly often what spaces will become significant to me some day. And I wonder when, if ever, I'll find another spot on earth that has such important moments of my history connected to it. I have always known that I will leave this city some day. But I have also always known that I will miss it terribly.

Credo
(this is a play from Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind. It is not about other people, but it speaks to me as an outsider. It's not currently in the menu but I'm bringing it back in a few weeks when I go back into the show.)

Credo, Go!

Andy marches onto stage with a toy rifle. He stops, pivots toward the audience and holds out the rifle. He shouts the following monologue, the way soldiers have to when they get their rifles.

This is my rifle. There are many like it but this one is mine. This rifle is not my best friend. In fact, it’s just a prop that we bought for one of my shows and we never used it. This rifle is a metaphor. Beyond that it is small and ineffectual.

I am five foot seven and weigh 140 pounds. I am small and I tire quickly. When I first joined this company, Steve had a play in that was a lot like this but it was about his bicycle. Steve is bigger than I am. Steve could kick my ass and drink me under the table.

I am not comfortable with my masculinity. I have issues. I tend to be more comfortable around women. This means that I am a sensitive guy with an understanding of women who is also heterosexual. This--plus the fact that I’m an artist--means that I can attract women who are way out of my league. Whoopdie doo. Hoo-rah.

A long time ago, attracting women who were out of my league mattered to me. It used to make me feel like a man. Not so long ago, getting attention from any woman made me feel like a man. There was a time when all I wanted at all times was to feel like a man.

I am still five foot seven and weigh 140 pounds. My fiancé is really hot and out of my league. But when I'm with her, I just feel like myself. And that’s a good thing. Fuckin’ aye.

This is my rifle. Flawed, vulnerable, harmless and at times ridiculous. This is me: skinny but still a little flabby around my mid-section. And I cried when Frodo and Sam were at the footsteps of Mount Doom. I fucking hate football and I played fantasy role-playing games like Dungeons and Dragons for thirteen years. I love my fiancé and I can’t wait to marry her. And one of the reasons I don’t go out very often is because I like staying home with her so much.

Some of my friends have called me pussy-whipped...Some of my friends are pussies. This is my rifle. And it’s mine.

Like a soldier who presents and then fires at a funeral, Andy pulls the rifle in, turns, points it at the ceiling and then fires. It is a lovely, little, pathetic sounding toy gun sound. He pivots and marches back off stage.

Curtain.