[I had the most interesting conversation this afternoon - while walking to class - with a fellow named Johanson L. Though the conversation was rather fragmented and, well, too eclectic to render in any exact transcription, I have done my best effort to recount for you the occurrence here. Upon reaching my Shakespeare class some thirty minutes later I tried my damndest to jot everything down I could possibly remember while my professor lectured on Shakespeare’s sonnets.]
I glance down the street of a busy avenue to see if cars are fastly approaching it does not seem that they are. I take a step into the street - something happens, something that would cause me to think twice about crossing, although I cannot remember exactly what piece of matter entered the intersection. I notice a Asian guy standing right in front of me to the right, a guy I noticed sometime ago that I took for “strange and unconventional” [only later do I realise he is autistic] in some way, as he was sort of prancing to himself in the street, talking to nobody. I glance upward at him with a smile that I hope is interpreted as reckless and ironic, a smile that shrugs and says, “Why not cross? I will if you will. If we both cross it’s alright.”
We both cross.
For some reason, upon reaching the other side of the street, we begin a conversation with one another. I do not recall whether I started talking first, or whether he did - or, for that matter, why either of us started talking in the first place.
When the fellow talks it is in a rather… unconventional voice, somewhat monotoned, his eyes rarely glance at me, but always look in the distance, far off into the sky.
He asks me what class I’m headed to and about the fifteen credit requirement and how I’m making out with it. The U of M recently started requiring students to take fifteen credits a semester. We stroll along the street on our way deeper into campus. At many points he follows my lead, turning this way and that. At one point he thinks I am about to head off in such-and-such a direction and he almost bumps into me. ?I am headed this way, I say. He follows.
–Shakespeare, I answer. And well, to put it frankly, I’m not. The 15 Credit Rule is a horrible idea. It tires one out. I’ve never managed to actually register for fifteen credits even though it’s supposedly required. They haven’t taken any actions against me and I’ve got this standoffish attitude about it. In the end my refusal to register for fifteen credits will probably only hurt myself. But I’ve done the fifteen credit thing here before it was The Law, and simultaneously worked full time. It made me insane. I almost lost it. I honestly had trouble getting out of bed in the morning.
–I have trouble doing homework and going to class, he says. I’ve got emotional loneliness [he says this in a very open manner that I find unnerving]. I get very lonely. Cannot study. Cannot keep my mind in one place. End up doing other things.
–I can understand that, I respond. School isn’t everything, after all. School can be prison. You?ve got your life to live. Only so much is to be gleaned from books… after awhile you’ve got to go out and experience the things you’ve read about. Life is… chronicled in books, but as an English literature major I can tell you flatly and authoritatively that it is not in books themselves.
–Yes, I go spend time with people in the city.
–Oh, I say, do you go roaming about the city looking for adventure [too]?
–Sometimes. I mostly try and make friends and hang out with the friends I have, he answers. But they depress me and reject me… and make me… make for more loneliness.
–That is true, I respond. People and books fail one - they always will. Your top priority must be God, I offer.
I let silence ensue for a second to see how he takes this statement.
–Yes, you are right. But people… they’re so…
–People will fail you and you will fail people, I tell him. But you must love them just the same even when they hurt and abandon you. You are to repeatedly think, “There but for the Grace, go I” and pick yourself up off the ground and carry on. You must be gracious with your fellowman for Christ’s sake… and simply love them.
–Mankind is… mankind, he answers.
–If there’s one thing you can say about mankind / There’s nothing kind about man, I respond, starting to feel like some sort of nun or hermitess giving counsel.
–I have trouble trusting them at all, he states.
–Well. I would venture to say that it is more admirable to end up being too trusting and naive than it is to be found wanting, coldhearted and cruel. You must always search for the good in people. What are you studying?, I ask.
–Biblical languages, he answers.
–Oh, my sister’s boyfriend is studying much the same, I inform him. I’d really like to learn Greek, it’s undoubtedly more useful than the things I study. Perhaps someday.
–I am preaching this Sunday, he tells me.
–Oh, where at, I tell him?
–Are you familiar with the home church movement?
–Perhaps. I am a reformed presbyterian, myself.
–I shall have to give you my e-mail address so you can contact me if you want to go. I model it after the early churches of the first century, which were in the home.
–For a while they were, I say, as if to add an addendum to his statement.
We stop at a bench where I presume he shall fetch a pen and paper from his backpack. But something happens and we continue to talk and no pen or paper is fetched. The whole of our conversation he glances up at the temple facade on one of the campus buildings behind me.
[This is where I cannot exactly recount for you the order of the conversation, or render Johanson in a concept that does him much justice.]
–Do you ever find yourself using the syntax of the New Testament writers?, he asks.
–Not so much, I don’t think so, I respond, raising a brow. Not necessarily, anyway. At least, not on a conscious level. Most of my writing is voluntarily vague and ambiguous? I’ve a fancy for New Criticism, so my writing is almost necessarily so,at a subconscious level, I think. However, the New Testament authors are speaking about Truth and so they talk with precision. The language of the Bible is very unique in that way, if you look at it.
–Have you ever noticed how you read sentences?, he asks. You have blue eyes and so you necessarily read sentences in a certain way, it is a biological impossibility for you to do otherwise.
I raise a brow and he explains to me how people with blue eyes and people with brown eyes read sentences in manners antithetical to one another.
–That is why Chinese people and Irish people write with a completely different syntax. It’s the eyes. The do not think in the same patterns; it is biologically impossible.
I might have raised the question of whether that has more to do with the finer structural elements of their respective languages, but I do not remember. I, I raised a lot of questions at various points.
–Do you ever find yourself picking up the syntax of other authors?, he asks.
–Yes, I say, syntax is fairly easy to copy and manipulate. I do it every now and again.
–But you cannot recreate it to be 100% identical.
–No, I agree, not unassisted from my head. I suppose a computer program could do it - replicate the patterns exactly.
–I can prove scientifically, he says, that Paul is Chinese just by analysing his syntax.
–I think it’s pretty well established that Paul was a Hebrew, I answer. Is there some New New Perspective on Paul now?
–Irish people, he says, are actually descended from the tribe of Benjamin, like Paul, if you take a close look at their syntax and their facial structure, they look like wolves. The hide it from us.
–Like wolves, I say?
–Yes, and if you look at some Jews they look like deers – that’s how you can tell that they are descended from Naphtali.
–Oh, I say, I see where you’re getting that, from Jacob. I think it’s only supposed to be poetic - not literal. I do not think you can prove that the tribe of Benjamin somehow made it to Ireland and settled there. I think it’s pretty much proven that the Irish are descended from Celts and Vikings and people groups like that.
–Oh, but they are Jewish. They hide it, he counters.
–Perhaps they don’t know they’re Jewish, I say, ironically.
How do you read sentences?, he asks. [He of course, gives me a few options on how I might read sentences from line to line, but I cannot for the life of me remember the different methods.]
I answer something or other. Students cast interesting eyes at us as they walk past. He is talking loud and is saying things that sound crazy a fair amount of the time.
–Then how do you have blue eyes?, he asks.
–Well, my father has blue eyes and my mother has brown. Both my sisters have brown. I’ve drawn those square genetic graphs before and figured it all out, scientifically.
–But it is impossible for you to have blue eyes.
Oh, this is odd, I think. He has been regarding me as a post-colonial other. How strange.
–I am of European descent, I answer.
–How? Oh, South African? You must be South African, he says, trying to force a label.
I add South African to along with Irish, Dutch, Spanish, mulatto, Italian, Native American, Russian, and Arabic to my mental List of Nationalities I’ve Been Called of which I Can Claim No Descendent and think that this might be the final straw, I just might undergo an identity crisis soon.
–I am Welsh, Swedish, Finnish, Slovakian, German, and French. And maybe Jewish - but I have absolutely no idea as to the veracity of that claim. It’s a… my maternal grandmother comes from an extremely German family – it’s always been held as a rumour, a dark family secret, that someone married a Jew at some point.. It really frightens me as I actually have a great uncle named Adolf who is currently very old and locked in some ward because he’s gone absolutely, roaring crazy. I really prefer not to think about it too often. I’m already starting to feel very maladjusted and ill just having brought it up, really, I say, wincing.
–I am working on a way to prove scientifically - through principles of reduction - what Jesus’ genealogy actually is.
–I thought the Bible already told us his genealogy, I respond.
–I will be able to scientifically prove that Jesus is the Son of God by properly analysing his syntax. The syntax he used is biologically impossible for a man of his genetic composition, therefore, he must be supernatural, Johanson explains, giddily. For instance, Jews always finish stories, Jesus doesn’t, which means he is either Chinese or the Son of God. He jumps around from context to context in his stories and speaks out of it.
–I’m not sure what you mean by context, I tell him.
–Like the story about the centurion, he says, and recites Jesus’ words in the story word for word while looking at the temple pillars.
I suddenly feel as though I am in Rome speaking with a madman.
–Well, I say, I’m still not sure what you mean by not finishing a story and switching context. I see His talk about many people like the centurion (i.e. non-Jews) being in heaven a logical progression from the statement about not finding a single Jew possessing as much faith as the centurion. His own did not receive Him but will crucify Him. Jesus came to be the saviour of the whole world - He says as much here. I don’t get exactly to what “story” you’re referring. Are you perhaps talking about the apostle who wrote the book… or something? Are you talking in an authorial context?
He says something I cannot remember, but it doesn’t succeed in countering my explanation. People walk by glance curiously at us, I glance at my watch.
–Do you have to go?, he asks.
–I’ve ten minutes, I respond.
–You, for instance, he says, are Jewish like your father. He is from the tribe of Benjamin also.
–I appreciate you allying me with my father’s nationality - as I think it’s only proper, but, I’ve already told you, my father is Welsh. If I am - and this is if I am - Jewish, it’s from my mother’s side.
–If your father were to walk past I could instantly identify him, he boasts to me.
–I don’t think so, I respond. I don’t look anything like him. I look like his mother, though. That is the only thing (besides my parents? word) that convinces me I am my parents’ daughter. I don’t resemble anyone else. In fact, I look strikingly different.
–What does your father look like?, he asks.
–He is short, I respond, as most Welshmen are. I’m actually taller than him. He has blue eyes, but I already told you that. I suppose he and I share the same hair colour.
–Can he finish his stories?, he asks. Can you finish your stories?
I stare at him. Am I being psychoanalysed by an autistic man?
–I’ve never paid attention as to whether he finishes his stories. I suppose he does. He doesn’t tell stories for art’s sake, but tells them for communication’s sake. Myself? I suppose I regularly leave them open-ended on purpose.
–What is his syntax like? What’s it like compared to yours?
I stare at him with a wrinkled brow:
–I’ve never paid much attention. I suppose I shall start.
I glance at my watch as the bell tolls signaling that the start of class is near.
He takes a pen and notebook out of his paper. Diagrams and mathematical symbols are scrawled all over it. He writes his name and e-mail address down with a Bic pen with blue ink: his letters and characters are large and curvy. He hands me the notebook and I begin to write my contact info down.
–Write larger, please, he asks.
I scribble over what I was writing and rewrite my e-mail and name in bigger characters.
–See, he says. You write in small blockish letters like a woman. My letters are larger and curvier, like a man’s.
–Well, from my experience, I think you’ve got it backwards. Women tend to write in curvy, bubbly letters whereas men write in small, angular, blockish letters. Perhaps it’s some reflection of the dichotomy of male/female figure - men generally possess an angular aesthetic while the woman form fits a curvy aesthetic. I’d never thought about it before. I used to have really ridiculous and bubbly letters as a child, but then I decided that they looked silly and unprofessional and consequentially reformatted my penmanship.
–What do your parents’ handwriting look like?, he asks.
–My dad writes in all capital letters, my mum writes in cursive. I don’t like her handwriting too much. It’s hard to read and almost looks melodramatic to me. I’ve always tried to keep my cursive clear and crisp and emotionless. It’s sort of hard to do with cursive. But it’s well worth the effort. Cursive is a lost art that needs to be recovered. What class do you have next?, I ask while he rips off the piece of paper with his contact info.
–The biology of the human female, he answers.
–Oh no, I think, as red lights start flashing in my head and I take a step back. If he starts talking about theology in sexual terms - why, why I’ll toss my glass of tea in his face and walk away. I really cannot abide such… such…NONSENSE.
–I tried to pick up a White syntax and be White last year. I failed. Tried to talk White, write White, he randomly says.
–Why in the world would you want to be White?, I ask. You’re Asian. Half of America wants to be Asian. It’s a great aesthetic. Have you looked in any fashion magazines lately? Asian is where it’s at. Do you know how many men in America have Asian trophy-wives?
–I tried to be Anna Nicole Smith, he says.
–Anna Nicole Smith?, I ask, raising a brow. Why in the world did you pick her as an archetype?
Self!, I immediately think after saying those words. You (I) shouldn’t have asked that. He’s probably going to say something obscene. But how in the world could you (I) not ask?
–Because she’s rich and doesn’t have to work. She’s got quite the life!
–Couldn’t you have picked Brad Pitt or someone?, I ask. A self-made American male?
–But it’s funny to say Anna Nicole Smith!, he exclaims.
Which, of course, makes me feel much relieved.
I tell him it was nice to meet him and walk on to class feeling rather… distressed. I sit down and quickly write down as much as the conversation as I can remember. I look at the piece of notebook paper immediately in front of the page I’ve written on and find the insane-looking diagram I scrawled in Textual Analysis and Interpretation last Thursday evening as Professor Fitzgerald was talking about Meaning. I had suddenly become very disturbed as the thought of the meaning present in inter-human relationships being somewhat independent of God, as God is the ultimate reference point in the universe and all things exist and have meaning only in relation to Him. My diagram was a miserable failure and had begun to look something like pantheism and so I had quickly scribbled it out. Glancing at it again I almost felt as though I was insane as Johanson. I resolved to never draw another diagram without supervision of somesort.
Karin and I went to a Pedro the Lion show at First Ave. this evening. I have seen Pedro just over fifteen times - an ungodly amount, I’m well aware. It just sort of happened over the years at various venues and music festivals around the country. Bazan’s stage presense has evolved again. Over the years he has gone from shy-mumbly-stuttery-guy to obnoxiously preachy guy to witty and sarcastic guy. The latter suits him. Indeed, my friends and I got so irked by his obnoxiously preachy days that we avoided watching his show at Cornerstone 2001 and went and slept backstage instead. It was, as I remember, a nice rest. That’s one of the things backstage passes are best for: catching shuteye.
Karin and I stood pretty close to the stage the entire time. Right to the right of us stood this couple in their late teens or early twenties. They persisted in talking in loud voices to one another - so much so that at one point during an acoustic song Bazan asked them to quiet down: they did not comply. During the course of the show they also bummed half my cigarettes. At one point the girl gleefully screamed, “Dave, you’re so sexy!”
I really had had just about enough of this foolishness and, if she did it one more time, resolved to curtly tap her on the shoulder and say, Excuse me, his wife is sitting right back their at the merch table. She’s a lovely and respectable woman, if you’ll just come with me, I’ll introduce you to her.
Fortunately for the girl, she did not commit such another impropriety.
My head hurts and I have to work in the morning. All this syntax really did a number on me. School wears me out.