3
SADLY, I DO NOT THINK I AM TELEPATHIC
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
I woke up this morning, put on coffee, and tried to listen to the tough (or lazy) morning birds, but the tiny angry man in my stomach was raging, screaming, Idiot! Neanderthal! Stupid!
It was quite disconcerting because I had no idea why he was upset. Usually I know right away what’s bothering him, because it’s usually what’s bothering me.
I racked my brain, but I couldn’t remember.
I fixed my coffee, and when I took my first sip—it came to me.
I had completely forgotten the point of my last letter, going on and on about unrelated past things. I didn’t even tell you the most important part about yesterday’s trip to the library, which makes me feel that I am indeed a gigantic emphatic moron.
(I get sidetracked easily by interesting things, and for this reason, people often find it hard to converse with me, which is why I don’t talk very much to strangers and much prefer writing letters, in which there is room to record everything, unlike real-life conversations where you have to fight and fight to fit in your words and almost always lose.)
At the library, I found an article on the Huffington Post that said you “received blessings from the Dalai Lama at Mahabodhi temple in Bodh Gaya.” It was dated March 18, 2010. There were pictures of you bowing to the Dalai Lama and him reaching down, touching your forehead with his hands in prayer position. There was also a photo of you praying with your eyes open while wearing expensive-looking Bose headphones. I wondered what you were listening to. On your left wrist were wooden beads, and on your right an old leather watchband. Judging by your eyes, you were enraptured.
Do you remember that day?
Have you seen this photo?
Being blessed by the Dalai Lama must have been a great honor, and I want to congratulate you right away, even though this event happened almost two years ago. I guess this is your equivalent of meeting the pope. I’d be very excited if I met the pope—even this new pope who is German. Mom never liked Germans, because her father was killed in World War II. (I have nothing against Germans.)
Then I found an article from the Syracuse Buddhism Examiner. It read “A TIME magazine survey on a wide-ranging list of the highs and lows of the past 12 months has listed the ‘Self-Immolation of Tibetan Monks’ as the number one ‘underreported story’ for the year 2011.” There was a picture of a monk on fire. He looked like a pillar of flaming lava. It was hard to believe that the photo was an actual man burning alive because the reddish orange color almost looked beautiful and the man was perfectly still.
(Also, I thought about how it is okay to look at a man on fire on the Free Library’s Internet, but not two naked women licking each other. Who makes the rules? Death is okay. Sex is bad. Mothers must die. Cancer comes when you least expect it.)
I looked at the man on fire for a long time, but couldn’t make my mind believe it was a person. Not that I doubted or mistrusted the caption. It was just very hard to believe that such things actually happen. That people on the other side of the world care enough about anything to set themselves aflame.
From what I understood, these monks performed the self-immolation in order to attract attention to your mutual cause—returning the Dalai Lama to Tibet.
The article went on later to say “TIME magazine has conceded that it generally takes a U.S. President aggravating Beijing by meeting with the Dalai Lama, or a high-profile celebrity Richard Gere fundraiser to get Tibet into the news these days.”
When I read that statement, it hit me—you, my friend, Richard Gere, are more powerful than a U.S. president, because the president wasn’t even named, and yet you were.
How does it feel to be more famous and powerful and iconic than Barack Obama?
I also understood that you can do more for the Dalai Lama by hosting a dinner party than Buddhist monks willing to burn themselves to death. Their sacrifice hardly makes the news—they go unnamed—but your being blessed by the Dalai Lama was in the Huffington Post.
You are a powerful man, Richard Gere.
I’m glad that I chose you to confide in during this difficult period in my life. The more I learn about you, the more I realize that Mom was right to keep your letter in her underwear drawer—that maybe she knew I would need your counsel after she was gone, and left your letter behind for me to find as a clue. It’s almost like she’s still helping me by making sure you and I are corresponding.
On a website called Tibet Sun, I read (and copied into my Interesting Things I Have Heard notebook) this: “A former Buddhist monk, who burnt himself last week in protest against the Chinese rule in Tibet, has reportedly died from burns. He was the twelfth Tibetan to have burned themselves in Tibet since March this year in protest against Beijing’s rule in Tibet. Seven of them are reported to have died.”
Twelve monks have lit themselves on fire trying to accomplish what you are trying to accomplish.
This, of course, reminded me of the twelve disciples of Jesus Christ, including Bartholomew (sometimes referred to as Nathaniel), who is my namesake.
I wondered if you, Richard Gere, were not the modern-day Jesus Christ of Buddhism.
It made me wonder if you ever thought about lighting yourself on fire, since you are also a Buddhist. Imagine how much news coverage that would demand. Everyone around the world would be transfixed if famous Hollywood actor and humanitarian Richard Gere performed a self-immolation.
Imagine it—the power!
Your greatest role!
I sincerely hope you will not light yourself on fire, because I have only just begun writing you. I would like to continue this conversation, so please do not go the way of these Tibetan monks. I believe you can accomplish much more alive than dead, and it doesn’t seem like their sacrifices are doing much to weaken China. Also, there is the clue—what I found in Mom’s underwear drawer—and perhaps you are meant to help not only the Dalai Lama but also me, Bartholomew Neil. Your self-immolation would not help me at all at this juncture, or at least I cannot see how.
No one in the United States even knows that these monks are making such a huge sacrifice, which makes me feel very disheartened for them.
Life is shit,” my young redheaded grief counselor Wendy says whenever we reach an impasse in our conversation.
It is her default platitude.
Her words of wisdom for me.
Life is shit.”
When Wendy says that, it’s like she’s pretending we are not bound together by her job, but really truly are friends. It’s like we’re having a beer at the bar, like friends on TV do.
Life is shit.”
She whispers it even. Like she’s not supposed to say that to me, but wants me to know that her happy talk and positivity are part of her pretending game.
Just like being a bird.
And I’ll try to connect the freckles on her face to make pictures—like new constellations—and I can make a heart when I try really hard.
Her face is an oval.
Her eyes are sometimes the color of a May sky at 2:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and sometimes they are the color of polar bear ice.
She’s beautiful in a little-sister way.
But back to the monks—I’m not sure I would light myself on fire for any cause whatsoever, and sometimes I worry that I just don’t believe enough in any one thing to make a significant contribution to the world, now that I no longer have to care for Mom.
Sometimes I wish I felt the passion and purpose you must feel for returning the Dalai Lama to Tibet, but I’ve never experienced such intense feelings.
Mostly I’ve just been content to spend time with my mother, and she said that our spending time together was fine by her.
She said she needed me, and it was nice to be needed.
She never made me feel as though I should be doing more with my life—like making money and having beers at the bar with friends—and I sometimes worry that her lax attitude was a mistake, especially while raising a fatherless boy.
Now that Mom is no longer with us, I’ve been wondering if it’s time for me to find something to be passionate about. Perhaps before I turn forty. I’d like to have a beer with a friend at the bar—at least once.
I’d like to take The Girlbrarian somewhere nice—perhaps the Water Works behind the art museum, where you can listen to the river flow.
Wendy says that the “next phase of my life” could be my best. I want to believe her, but she is only a young girl who has not experienced much thus far in life. I like her, but I do not consider her a confidant.
You are my confidant.
I would like to have a beer with you at the bar, Richard Gere.
What do you think?
I would gladly heed your advice.
Do you think I should become passionate about something?
The more I research on the Internet, the more sympathetic I become toward your cause, Richard Gere, I must confess.
The Dalai Lama seems like an extraordinarily nice man. I’ve been reading about him and his philosophies. He says that we must relinquish our sense of I or self.
The Dalai Lama says, “We must recognize that the suffering of one person or one nation is the suffering of humanity. That the happiness of one person or nation is the happiness of humanity.”
In the Dalai Lama’s book A Profound Mind, you wrote in the afterword that our lives are like the beam of light coming out of a movie projector, illuminating the screen, which is emptiness. I liked that. It was good—beautiful.
Is it true?
I will read more about Buddhism.
But regarding my becoming passionate—maybe I should start with something smaller than taking on China.
I can’t even speak with The Girlbrarian, and I’ve been secretly trying to do that for years now. I’m at a disadvantage because I’m not Richard Gere handsome. I’m six foot three inches tall with too much hair on my arms and in my ears, but not enough on the top of my head. Plus I do believe my nose isn’t symmetrical, even though no one has ever commented on this or made fun of it. But mirrors don’t lie.
Sometimes I send The Girlbrarian messages with my mind, but I do not think she is telepathic. Sadly, I do not think I am telepathic either.
I’d appreciate any input you could offer.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil