Since
I'm going to spend the next six months or as such doing just that, I shall
start by following in the man's steps and introducing myself in more detail (in
fact, I've a gnawing suspicion that the vast majority of this post would
consist of little more, given the thought processes involved). As I already
half-said, my name is Guy Reisman, 21 years old male, from Ra'anana, Israel.
Like Shahar, I am and have for some time been a nerd – perhaps not as
extrovertly as he (and not quite entirely in all the same senses), but
vigorously nevertheless and in the fashion that tends to consume one's whole
lifestyle and mindset from childhood, as tends to happen to nerds. I'd like to
be able to say with good conscience that I'm an eccentric, or quirky, but both
terms would be disingenuous. "Eccentricity", as the word is most
usually used, implies either wisdom or knowledge – as if to hint by description
that one's strangeness has somehow been the price one has paid for the
acquisition of such – whereas "quirkiness" tends to be used as a term
of endearment. A "quirky" individual is weird in the fluffy, colorful
way that the designated love interest in a teen romantic comedy is, just as
much to make clear that they have the potential to pull the dreary protagonist
away from their bleak daily lives and into a festival of experience and
sensation the likes of which they literally haven't imagined thus far.
I'm
neither of those things. I'm just weird. I haven't gone out with friends until
I was late into middle-school, and despite being able to name from the top of
my head the functions and titles of a dozen Mayan gods and explain the
mechanics behind quantum physical phenomena, I still don't entirely know how to
make use of the post office (or what the way there is, for that matter), much
less the bank, change the oil on my car, or tie my shoelaces right. I'm deathly
afraid of cockroaches and can't sit with my back against a chair. I spend hours
looking up obscure titles of cartoon porn the contents thereof raise concerns
about my sexual orientation, sanity, and mental lucidity (and I insist on there
being a difference). I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night just to
make sure that every single object in my room is lying at a 90o
compared to the wall and at 5 centimeter incitements from all other ones (it
bothers me when they don't), and I'd rather not eat for a day than leave my
room and go to the kitchen if there's anyone there but my parents. I've never
been away from home for more than two weeks at a time – and that was during
basic training.
I
decided to go on a sixth month camping trip on a whim.
This,
by itself, is neither a very informative statement, nor does it adequately
illustrate both the absurdity and the decade-long emotional chain reaction
which has (so far as I've been able to analyze it following the occasion) led
to this strange and unexpected development.
As
I've explained in some length above (forgive my verbosity, I've been dying to
write some of those down for posterity for months now), I'm not exactly the
type of person one would normally envision making that kind of choice. The fact
to be mindful of, though, is that until not many years back, I was far, far
further. What little progress I've made since then on the theoretical scale of
functionality-as-an-adult-human-being I owe, of all people, to Shahar and
friends.
We
met for the first time over the internet (I used to meet most of my friends
there), on an Israeli anime fandom forum that might no longer exist today, for
all that I know of it. We hit of magnificently, with a furious argument about
the precise definition of science fiction that he no doubt still thinks that he
won. That's how you know nerds love each other. Several months later, I was
introduced to the man in person (and through him, to many dear, longtime
friends) on a "real-life convention" for the forum members, and to
this day, I remember the decision to go on it – a very difficult one, mind you,
for someone who until then and up to today faces trouble leaving his room when
the time's not right – as one of the best I've made. Outside home, on the
streets of Tel-Aviv, for the first time in life truly by myself and away from
the comforts of family and home, surrounded (again, for the first time) by
people with whom I could talk to and share both my feelings and interest, I
stayed out later than I ever have. I've experienced joys the likes of which I'd
read and written about, but which I was never able to thus far appreciate,
which seemed to me as alien and wonderful as they were tantalizingly forbidden.
On consecutive meetings with Shahar, which eventually became their own thing
and separate from "real-life forum conventions", I spoke for the
first time with kids whom I didn't know from school, and was astounded by how
deep and friendly and interesting they could be. I had alcohol for the first
time and went into a 24/7 grocery store to buy snacks in the middle of the
night for the first time.
It
feels almost pathetic to write that. By all means, I think that it should.
These are things every young kid should find for themselves at a far earlier
age than I did. They shouldn't seem nearly so magical as they did to me, who
grew up coddled and with a silver spoon in his mouth not by my parents (whom I
now know would've both been, for all their incredible understanding, ecstatic
for me to strike out first) but by my own childish and emotionally retarded
nature. I retell the events as they happened, however. The fact of the matter
is that through Shahar, for the first time in my life, I saw the world. That
the world was a half-hour's bus ride (I never took the bus before meeting Shahar.
It was dirty and full of noisy people) away from home and made up of convention
centers and cafes and late night meeting spots by the beach was inconsequential.
To me, it might as well have been a place across mountains it oceans. It
might've been as distant as Ghana, Brazil or Japan.
Years
went by too fast and underappreciated. That is the nature of years. I grew, and
though only by little, my thought processes and my understanding of reality and
my place in it grew more complex. I became aware, on a different level of
being, of how inappropriate it was for me to be as I still am – a juvenile, emotionally
dependent manchild whose time and effort are invested solely in instant
gratification and the consumption of media. I pitied myself, but even though I
realized it, in my mind, my feeble heart wouldn't allow action on that
self-pity was a form of escape. To wallow in misery means to punish oneself for
real or imagined wrongdoings, so that one might feel that the scales have been
balanced (wrong=punishment) and dodge the too-obvious conclusion that wrongs
don't require punishment, but to be fixed.
It
was one of my last nights in the tenth grade. Shahar and his friends and mine
and I all went to the beach. It was becoming a ritual, of kind. The time was
long after dark. The sky, a pitch black that melds with the sea. A cool, Mediterranean
wind whispered wistfully east (there goes my alliteration). We were seated
around a campfire.
The
flames whispered calmly in kind. They spoke to the wind, and it answered.
We
passed around us a bottle of the world's cheapest whiskey. We ate chicken that
Shahar roasted, and as the hours drew on and the moon rose high with the tides,
those lit in fire orange against the blackness spoke.
We
spoke about trivial things, at first. We spoke about movies. Video games.
Books. We spoke about trivia, and made jokes, and imitated fictional
characters, and each other. We spoke to the group. We spoke to individuals. We
spoke to ourselves. Every once in a while, one or two people would leave the
group. They'd go a few meters away to take a piss, or to kiss, or to say
something to each other that didn't bear anyone else listening.
I
won't tell you, now, when it was that a dear friend named Lemmy took my aside
to talk. I won't tell just what he said.
If
you're wondering, it involved two anime quotes, and a dash of his own
roleplaying experiences.
That conversation opened my eyes about many
things. At times, I wonder if I should've followed more closely the guidelines
Lemmy spelled during it. He offered me a bible to life. A roadmap of the inner
universe. It sounds like something you'd hear from a cult member. In my
defense, we used to joke back then that Lemmy was a facet of Christ.
(You'll
probably hear more about him in before our journey ends).
One piece of advice he did give me, though,
and that since then I've tried to follow at almost all times, was this: never
say "no" to a challenge just because it's impossible. That's the
secret of doing impossible things.
I
kept it to heart ever since, and for the most part I'd like to believe that it
has served me well. I chose to interpret it liberally – "when the prospect
of doing something crazy comes up, first assume you'll accept it then work back
from there", and minus a few minor falls along the way (I'm reminded of
how, maybe two years before that, I chose after a moment's hesitation to sign
my name on a page passed among us in class and thereby commit to a yearlong Boy
Scouts' counselor course – all because a girl I had a seventh grade crash on
signed a moment before that. We didn't even end up in the same group, and
having met with her years later I can now say with certainty that she was an
idiot and the grapes were totally sour. It was alike this, but out of
dedication to an ideal, rather than puberty) it's led me to some of the most
intense moments of my life. Each one was a new beginning. Each one was a piece
of the world revealed, and thus guided by Lemmy's words, step by step, I began
on the road towards becoming not the person I wanted to be, but the person I
had to. Happier by a measure. More confident. Reliable.
So
when Shahar brought up, one day, the fact that he'd like to go on a six month
trip in Japan and that nobody else would join him, I said "yes"
without hesitation. Admittedly, back then the idea seemed so far-fetched (and
so distant in time – there would be literally years until we had to,
theoretically, go!) that it may not have mattered so much. A part of me may
have even assumed, if only subconsciously (hoped?) that the trip would be
cancelled before we even got started preparing for it. When Shahar called me
several months ago and began, out of the blue, talking about buying a tent and
a sleeping bag and making plans, it first took me a minute to recall what he
was talking about at all.
Then
came a momentary terror, then bemusement. Then that subtle dread, so much that
you hardly notice it except in retrospect, that accompanies the setting of a
countdown. Six months, it was? Maybe more?
For
a time, I set the thought aside, or tried to. It lingered in the back of my
mind, in the fashion of long-term plans ("one day, I'll write that
book") and outside my conversations with Shahar, I paid it little
attention. As more and more time passed, however, the more it became apparent
that Shahar was serious. The trip was a serious deal. One way or another, it
was going to happen.
The
moment I resigned myself fully to it was when Shahar took me to buy equipment
at first. A tent, special traveling clothes, water purification devices… All
things Shahar understood and which never really interested me before (and
probably still don't, at least not nearly as much as they do him. Woe to me if
we ever part, I still don't know how I managed to mentally float through all
the times I was instructed on how to use half the gear).
Regardless, they cost
nearly 10,000 NIS (3500$, give or take). I figured that once I've spent that
kind of money on the trip, I wouldn't be able to cancel it in good conscience.
It's not that my family's struggling (thank God for that), but maybe it's
precisely because I never worked a day in my life and all my money always comes
from my parents that I forever feel terrible about asking for any amount of it.
The feeling that I don’t deserve it is a burden to bear, in a literal
"rich people's problems" kind of way.
And
I made my dedication. Now, I'm waiting for the flight, that should happen in a
couple of days. This part of the introduction is over. I've written almost 3000
words and haven't gotten near where I wanted (it's just something that happens when
I write). The thing is, when I put my mind just to it, my words
uncharacteristically fail me.
If
I were to express my feelings right now in a painting, it would be one of
roiling storm-clouds, seen through an old fashioned glass windowpane. Out there,
the winds howl and the air gets colder and wetter. There's a hint of something
terrible coming, in the original sense of the word ("which begets
terror"). A powerful, majestic disaster, the manifestation of forces
beyond human ken and representative of something supernal. The type of looming
death one can imagine themselves, in a fit of madness, rushing forth to welcome
with their arms spread open. The clouds are visible. Their force can be only
imagined, but still. They move slowly over the horizon to cover the sky, and
maybe the storm will flatten that dark, imaginary house, and maybe it won't.
What matters for the imaginary viewer, though, is that the clouds are out
there. Behind the window, their image is blurred. The sound of the wind is
muffled to a faint and unknowable roar at the edge of perception.
That
window is a curtain I've artificially erected between my everyday thoughts and
what I can only presume to be an excitement which would've rendered me
completely incapacitated if I hadn't contained it beyond. I can see that
anxiety gathering, in the recesses of my mind – the worries and fears and
regrets welling up, but safely, for now, as I smile and part with my current
life in Israel.
There
are all too many regrets. I find myself thinking, sometimes, that this
sensation must be reminiscent somehow of that experienced by the terminally ill
(with all due respect to them mentioned, for which I have as much as I have
little knowledge, which itself has been gained mostly off cheap drama novels
and tearjerking films). The words "this is the last" keep swirling
eternally through my mind. Everything I do or experience has an air of dreadful
finality.
This
is the last slice I'll eat of dad's homemade pizza. This is the last glass of
mint lemonade. This is the last conversation I'll have my friends together, on
a Saturday morning. Last time that we'll meet at home, and promise ourselves
that next time, surely, we'll play a good game of D&D, like in the old
times (why did we stop?). This is the last episode I'll watch of that cool new
series (and to think that the next season's about to start just a few days
after we leave…). This is the last time I'll wake up in bed, at home. The last
time I'll go to the toilet there. Last time I use our shower (should I've been
more appreciative of those little pleasures?). Last chapter of The
Fellowship of the Ring that I'll read to my brother before bed. We still
haven't gotten to Rivendell. He'll never hear me making his first ever
impression of Gimli (and why is it that all those descriptions of hobbits
struggling to move under the weight of their immense supply backpacks, quickly
through the moors and fields, now feel that much more ominous?).
Friends
and family members try to reassure me that six months is not all that long.
While not incorrect, and while I vastly appreciate their concern, the notion
nevertheless fails to calm me. Firstly, any period of time has a way of
stretching while it is being experienced – and far more so if it is spent
somewhere unfamiliar, doing hard work or alternatively, not much at all (just
ask any IDF soldier who has to spend eight hours a time on watch). As I've
already explained above, I'm very much a creature of both routine and comfort.
The idea of going on even a single day's hike is overwhelming to me. Six months
might as well be forever, on this scale of individualized time. That
statistically, most people return from their trips to Japan (and if they like
mint lemonade, will probably be able to find some more once they're back)
doesn't matter because what's then is then, and what's somewhere else is then,
too. It feels like I'm the person who
worries the most and is excited the least about it all. Everyone else keeps
patting me on the back and pointing forward. Telling me how much I'm going to
have, and how easy it's going to feel thinking back on it, regardless of how
hard it might look facing it now. Shahar, in particular, seems to me awfully
unconcerned about things. I had to beg him to draw us a map, and my bag's
packed with twice as many supplies as he'd asked me to because I have a feeling
we're going to need some of them. Extra clothing, extra medicines, spare
batteries. You never know, and I'd rather be safe than sorry. Shahar says I'm
paranoid. I say people tend to complain about having to carry around extra gear
on trips only until it turns out to be needed. That's how it was with basic
training, in any case.
Secondly,
it fails to reassure me because it misses what is, for me, the point. This
journey represents more than just a physical trek across a land I've never been
to (past a continent and an ocean). It represents a transition from one state
of existence to another. One that I do not welcome, but acknowledge the fact
that I should.
My
life is and always has been the life of a spoiled child. Even back when I was
serving at the army, even when I was at school, in the great scheme of things I
did very little beyond what I wanted to do (that instant, stupidly). The last
few months, since my service has ended, I've spent doing almost nothing besides.
Each day, while my friends and parents work and study and grow as people I wake
up whenever I like, and after having a quick and unhealthy breakfast sit down
in front of my computer and spend the rest of the day, until bed, either
reading or writing or sating whatever childish urge for media has been passing
my fancy that day. I'd be lying if I said I don't like it, on some level. It's
certainly a pleasurable way to exist, if not a fulfilling one. It's also, alas,
not one that can be reasonably sustained – and if it can, then, do you know –
it shouldn't.
I
look up the screen and see the tabs open on my browser. A to do list in
internet links. Over thirty series' I still want to watch, "some
time". Over fifteen books I still want to read. New ones keep coming out.
Ones on my shelf that I've never even opened, because, paradoxically, there
never seemed to be enough time "at the moment", yet there always
seemed to be an infinity of it "sometime later".
I
look up and realize, now more acutely than ever, that I won't ever finish
watching and reading all those. I won't write down all the ideas that keep
popping into my mind. I probably won't fulfill all of my childish dreams, petty
or grand as they might've been. Once I come back from Japan the time will come
to set on my college studies, then work, then "life" – its entirety
encapsulated in that short, frightful word – and there won't be anymore time or
justification for continuing to act like a child. Leaving meaninglessly, for
nothing.
Hopefully,
by the time I return from Japan, I'd have grown up enough as a person to be
able to deal with this more constructively. Independence, both emotional and in
practice, is a scary but necessary thing to achieve. What better way than to
make it the only way to, for a time, survive? (or at least convince oneself
that it's so, rather than there always being the option of hopping onto the
next train to Tokyo and from there on a plane back to Tel-Aviv, our dreams
shattered upon the alter of cowardice).
Finishing
writing, as opposed to starting, has always been a hard thing for me. No matter
how much I've written, no matter how much I've said, there's always the feeling
that I've missed something I'm going to regret. That at some later point, I'm
going to think back to the text and then – "I should've also mentioned… I
could've better… Maybe if I'd deleted, and then, instead…".
But
texts need their proper endings. Blog posts, as much as any other kind. So
instead of a proper ending (didn't we just being?), I'll say this:
As
afraid as I am right now, and as worried as I’m, I try not to lose sight of the
hope that this trip represents. Or myriad hopes, as it does. Immediate hopes.
Hopes for the near future. For further than that.
I
hope that it'll be alright. I hope that I'll be fun. I hope that I'll learn something
from it. I hope that it'll change who I am. I hope the world stays the same
when I'm back.
I
hope that you'll join me along, for the ride.
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