Over the past month I've read the first twelve Wheel of Time books and it's all Kyle's fault. (Dammit Kyle!) He was excited about them at BYU for reasons that, having read the series, I don't understand. Nevertheless, pretty much every free minute for weeks has gone into finishing that series, which came after finishing the first couple fistfuls of the Desden Files books, which Kirk recommended. Which came after the Tru Blood marathon, which Mark recommended. Which came after the Big Bang Theory marathon, which Christian recommended. Which . . . you get the idea.

Following recommendations is what I do, apparently. Something that can enrich an existing relationship gets precedence. All other things appearing equal, a friend's recommendation makes a thing pop--and yeah, most things appear equally appealing, or unappealing.

***

I have a red shirt I bought in New York just before I came to Japan. It feels like it's hugging me and whispering compliments to my soul when I wear it.

***

I went to Mormon church today. (No one ever recommends this.) 

This morning I woke up two hours before my alarm, laid in bed for two hours watching Youtube videos, and then went to the chapel. Sunday school was taught by the missionaries, in English, to me and a visiting girl and a guy who either wants to improve his decent English or is a ward missionary or both. 

The lesson was on the plan of salvation. Made me think of things I hadn't thought about in a long time, like Adam and Eve, and the veil of forgetfulness between this life and the one before. All the way through SS and sacrament meeting and no panic attacks. 

***

No one ever recommends that I do massage school, either. In fact, several people have said they think it's a weird idea and they can't see me enjoying it. My family thinks it'll be a waste of my brain yet also says "Hey, it's your life." But I want it, so when I'm done being in Japan, I'll be a student again. I'll find some way to not feel sheepish when I tell people I want to do massage school.

***

In my BYU freshman dorm, I sat on the super comfy brown fuzzy front room couches with my marked up Book of Mormon and thought sadly to myself that the book's advice was a little far away. "Even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you," Alma said. I couldn't even desire to believe. Too much hurt. (This was my problem with so much of scripture and also that douche C.S. Lewis: it assumes too much. Why would little miserable seventeen-year-old me even want to believe in this religion? Believing Christianity is not a happy prospect, at least for the gay of us, and if you try to represent Christianity as a religion of pure and obvious joy to me, I will feel like you are invalidating what I've been through, and I will sock you.)

Somewhere along the line I started wanting to believe. Not believing, but wanting to. So I went to Mormon church today. Maybe this will be a gradually permanent thing, or maybe not, but right now if I want to go that's okay. Maybe it will decide the course of my life and maybe it won't.

***

I want to go to massage school, so I will. Maybe it will be like editing and I'll realize after a few years that it was the idea I was in love with and I really loathe the reality of it. Maybe it will decide the course of my life and maybe it won't.

***

I despair of finding a calling in my life, or even stability.

***

Red shirt.

.

Three or four people have pinged me from a gay Mormon networking / dating site this past week, the sweeties. Makes me notice how I don't date. Sometimes we have long conversations about nothing or about drama or about the church and it feels familiar and comfortable and a little bit behind me. It's weird to think that guys might be over eighteen and still too young for me.

I was thinking about the toast I'll give at Scott's wedding next October. We've known each other forever. Things have stayed the same, things have changed. There are memories. With age relationships stop suffering from embarrassment a little maybe.

I guess it feels a little like Japan isn't real life. BYU felt that way too, and those years in between. I guess life hasn't felt real since I came out. I'm always waiting for what's next, always planning the end of this and the beginning of that and thinking, when this is over and that's begun, then I'll really be alive. Things will click. My whole soul will come flaring up inside me like a geyser of meaning that infuses everything and makes me think that at last what I'm doing matters.

What I want to say is, I can finally imagine settling down with a husband and raising children, and as that works its way into my thought process I think life will look more real. More lasting. More worthwhile.

**********

I did not visit the church.

There was a boy in my capstone course at BYU who had a depressive disorder. He wouldn't show up to class for a couple of weeks and we'd think he'd dropped and then he'd show up again. The teacher was understanding. He was in my group for one assignment. He never made it to our group meetings.

I don't want to not be able to get out of bed. That's why I cram as many things into my schedule as I can. More things to do means more reasons to get up. Not exactly more things to look forward to. More like more people I'd let down if I stayed in bed all day.

This week I rescheduled my Japanese class so I could lay in bed all evening. I was halfway to the bus stop in the rain and my pants felt weird and clammy on my legs and I stopped and called my teacher and went home. I don't know what I would have done today if it hadn't been "chorus festival," which required me to do nothing more than sit in a dark auditorium for three hours at one in the afternoon.

Naw, I know. I woulda gone to work and taught my classes.

Sometimes I think it's just a matter of time until I stop getting out of bed at all and sometimes I think I'm just trying to fob my laziness off on my brain chemicals.

Today I half broke down in front of my Japanese teacher. Not understanding or being able to make myself understood makes me want to die a little; hide a little; kick in a little window with my bare right foot. It's been six months since my plane touched down in Tokyo and yes I understand much more than I did then, but even a two hundred percent increase isn't much when you start at one. Thus the tears.

The tears actually waited until I left her house, but they started welling up when she asked "How are you?"

Last night I was marveling at how awesome my life is. It's still awesome, but today I'm tired. Not depressed, just tired.

There was woodsmoke in the air on my walk home—the last night I'll ever walk up to this apartment—and I thought about my favorite date because that night there was also woodsmoke. It was back when I couldn't call a date a date without facing disciplinary action from BYU. We skewered bits of steak on sticks we'd sharpened. (Mostly he'd sharpened, I'm not handy with a knife.) We talked about dreams and hopes and what we'd done already. We didn't touch at all because we were both only half out of the closet and then there was BYU. I think probably we would touch now, if he weren't dating someone and I weren't in Japan and we were sitting by the fire roasting bits of steak in a park somewhere. Maybe not, though.

I love you.