Waiting for Honza

Church of the Inner Monkey

I was raised in religion since before I was born. Conservative Baptist. In a small town. As a child, you don’t have much to measure it against. I kind of liked the felt board with felt stick-on sheep, disciples, Jesus and Mary, etc. I liked the singing, and it gave me a strong repertoire of some good old gospel as well as the classic old dirges. It was a constant immersion of Sunday school, morning sermons, evening sermons, Wednesday Bible study, youth group, choir practice as well as retreats and vacation Bible school and camp every summer.

By my teens it was starting to chafe a bit. Wearing makeup was bad, dancing discouraged, even playing cards was evil. Women held lesser positions in the church. And we were told it was best to only date boys within the church, which left me with a choice of two awkward and unsociable options. My parents’ divorce drove it home for me. Mom left the Baptists to join the Lutherans across town with her new husband. The Baptist women, former friends of hers, took me aside and told me that my mom was basically evil.

I couldn’t wrap my head around that. I couldn’t wrap my head around the whole religious concept for that matter. I was beginning to see that all religions are like the Tower of Babel, when suddenly everyone on Earth spoke different regional languages (another story I don’t quite understand). Most religions are speaking basically the same concept but in different terminology. All roads lead to the same place - an understanding of who we are, why we’re hear and where eventually we go.

Thus my concept of the Inner Monkey. I think everything we do and everything we are stems from one of two places: love or fear. To truly be a spiritual person, one needs to access the place of love and embody it. Simple but difficult, since we’ve all been raised basically fear driven. And that includes religion - fear of hell, fear of God’s fury, etc. I think heaven and hell exist inside us. I think God exists inside us as well.

I had the Christian experience, being saved, when I was four years old. I remember it still as a rush of exhuberance - love - and lights seem brighter, colors sharper. I can still have moments of that now, through meditation and concentration on the energy of love.

All this gets heavy and religious-sounding (or ugh, new-agey) which is where the monkey comes in. I think a higher energy (God) directs us through our thoughts an intuitions expressed via the monkey. When you’re travelling a path in life that’s not the right one for you, the monkey squawks. If you don’t hear it at first, it gets louder and louder. For me the louder parts are when I start to feel physically ill. But when you’re travelling the correct path for your life, the monkey is chill and the path is seamless.

It’s as easy as that… conceptually. But we’re so ingrained to accept discomfort that we tend to discount it. And it sounds ridiculous to say someone can be happy all the time. I wish I could but I’m so not there yet. Meanwhile I find it comforting to know I have a built-in compass that, through some discipline on my part, I can access at any time.

That sort of leads me to my idea about Teenage Jesus, the topic of my first ever stand-up open mic routine which I performed just a week ago. I’ll get to that next time.

Blindsided by a guacamole*

I currently have 2 jobs. The first was originally a six month trial I talked my way into not fully qualified that has been extended due to the graciousness of my boss Samir. It has caused me growing stress to prompt me to seek further employment. Thus I found the second job through a friendly acquaintance (and poker buddy), Tom. Both are fun friendly guys, professionally moderately successful albeit both scattered and possibly slightly ADD.

I hope to go full time with Tom’s organization which is an annual conference for international college students. He currently has me starting part time calling universities globally to drum up attendance. But the pay is barely living wages, and Samir has agreed to pay me half my previous decent wage for one more month though with the promise of commission on sales. After over six months working for his small specialized IT company, I have yet to fully understand what exactly the company is selling. It’s a niche service that’s one of the many aspects of the complicated universe they call IT.

Samir has taken to assigning me more tasks, more substantial work then when I was making full wages with him. Yesterday he had the idea that I should trek across town today to the large business complex that houses his company’s one and only client. To name the company would probably be a disservice to him since he works for that company as well as runs his own from within, outsourcing employees for jobs his full time employer has. Rather like inside stock trading it seems. So I was to meet with a guy I’ve been talking to and corresponding with regarding one of these outsourced personnel. I didn’t see the purpose since we were taking care of things just fine as is. But I looked at it as a good chance to break out of the confines of the home office (my kitchen), put on a cute outfit and impress the IT nerds in person.

I found a picture of the guy I was to meet, Mike, online through a business networking site where we’re both members. Hmmm, kinda cute. So it wouldn’t be such a nerd fest afterall. And of course my overactive imagination started with us flirting, then maybe a lunch date, then….? It was a nice day, not as brutally cold as the past couple weeks. I actually enjoy public transport when I don’t have to use it every day. I’ve of course been to this particular business complex before, as the site of my company and my company’s only client. And a girl I used to work with a couple years ago works the front desk.

So I had a nice catch-up chat with Lucy while I waited for Mike to fetch me in the lobby. He showed up smiling, but maybe not as cute as the pic (ah how the internet can misrepresent). But he was tall and smart in his jumper and tie. He had reserved an overly large conference room and as we sat down I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had previously decided to smile charmingly, let him take the lead on the discussion, and nod thoughtfully as appropriate. I’m good at parroting certain terms, as if in agreement. ”ah yes, the BCT’s do need to be leveled.” He had a charming British accent I couldn’t place. Not that I’m an Anglophile expert on regional dialects, but a year of telemarketing BT broadband to all reaches of the UK inured me a bit. He had sandy hair with pleasing little flashes of premature grey. His teeth weren’t typically Brit-bad, but were an off shade of white. I watched carefully to see if his eyes dialated when he looked at me, which I fancied they did. And his stomach growled adorably every few minutes.

But it wasn’t the mention of his girlfriend asking why he only grabbed a muffin on his way out the door at 6am that put me off. As he was talking I watched his wrist to maybe get an idea of the time from his watch (a small habit I have when bored in a meeting), and it was then I got a flash of an amazing dark mole the size of a large pickle just above his cuff. Not that that would have been so startling, but it hosted a sheath of long sharp looking black hair. It was just a second’s flash. He seemed to sense my discovery and ever so slyly (a trait he likely perfected throughout his life, unless that is it was something the developed - at least with the fierce hair - in his adult life) pulled his cuff and the spectre was not to be seen again.

I don’t remember what else was said in the meeting. It finished near minutes later, when I suggested perhaps he needed to grab some lunch. He walked me to the lobby with polite small talk. We shook hands and once again I curse my silly overactive imagination.

*credit reference to Austin Power’s Goldmember

Write or Die

Why is it that sometimes we put off or avoid that which we know is ultimately good for us? I once had a psychic tell me that writing is my Light. I know that to be true because putting words to page brings me a pure form of joy. So why is it that it has taken me…literally years… to start writing in earnest?

It’s not a case of writer’s block - I have plenty to say. I think it’s more of an ungrounded fear of facing the truth that exposes itself when I begin to let the written words flow. I’ve tucked little bits of my creativity away in small compartments for so long that we’ve become distant acquaintances. I’m shy to face the mirror that these bits will reflect back to me, forgotten pieces of myself.

But not writing is a slow agonizing death, an atrophy of a gift I’m ashamed to have squandered at least until now. So thus it begins, again.

Welcome to Waiting for Honza. This represents my first step in reaquainting myself with my long lost muse. I’ve said before that I have at least one book inside me. So here we go. Bear with me as I get the wheels in motion again. I think I can assure you that it will be a fun ride.

My writing is of course based on life experiences, especially since I moved to Prague three and a half years ago. The names will be changed to protect the not-so-innocent. I welcome and appreciate feedback. This is the first time since my studies that I have written publicly. And yeah, most who even fancy themselves to be writers say that they have the next great novel inside them. Well, we’ll see won’t we? I don’t intend to be grandiose. My writing mostly amuses me and if anyone else is entertained, all the better.