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Chapter 13
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Interjection One When I think about The Mona Lisa the first memory I can recall is from when I was about 6. I remember walking through my house and looking at her hanging on a dark adobe wall. I was afraid of her but intently curious. It was as if she was looking back at me. It was as if she was asking me: "Who are you?"
The question I wouldn’t be able to answer for myself until I asked Mona the very same thing almost 15 years later. I can remember exactly where she was and being enthralled by her, the rest of the memory has faded. I asked my Mom what we did with the painting and where she got it. She said we never had a copy of the Mona Lisa and didn’t know what I was talking about. So maybe the first memory I have of Mona Lisa is nothing but a childhood dream? She did say we might have had another painting I was probably confusing it with. But why do I remember it as the Mona Lisa? Isn't it strange to think that a dream could be confused as a memory? That my first and only memory of this painting was a dream? How accurate is memory anyways? There are lots of memorable events that happen throughout your life. Some good, some bad, most are somewhere in between. When I began the journey which led to this book I searched for a beginning. When did this all really start? Was it the first time I saw a picture of the Mona Lisa? After I read the Da Vinci Code and realized the Mona Lisa was so mysterious? Or could it have been sometime sooner? Or maybe it’s my destiny to do what no one else could? I’ve never believed in destiny or fate, but that doesn’t mean they don’t believe in me. I had always believed that all of life’s mysteries were already answered or impossible to understand. I thought you had to be an expert in a field to know anything about it. I thought that what we’re taught in school was the only truth. I was fortunately mistaken.
Was Christopher Columbus an expert in spherical navigation? Did Einstein learn about the theory of relativity in a classroom? It was Einstein himself that said that if you haven’t contributed anything to human understanding by the time you’re 30 -you probably wouldn’t. So maybe it’s not the wise elders as much as the naïve youth who end up discovering more.
Most discoveries are a culmination of previous knowledge combined with something new and unique. Whether it’s a person, a theory, or an invention- the steps to progress are mostly sequential. The Cotton Gin, Electricity, the telephone, agriculture, and most significantly, writing. Most great ideas take previous great ideas to work from. Everyone born has all of human histories’ knowledge to work with but it’s only a select few that add to it. Sometimes these individuals make such a contribution that it results in a huge unrestrained leap forward. But sometimes, most times, humanity isn’t ready to follow. Perhaps the greatest innovation everyone is lacking is being able to present new and different ideas without fear. Why does everyone fear change so intensely? Why are we so afraid of any new truth? So when I think of the start or the cause of my individual journey I first invoked any memory I had about the subject. The Mona Lisa, Da Vinci, and anything seemingly related. They almost seem like files inside my mind. Since memory and how we store them is still a mystery in itself, it’s a noteworthy subject by itself.
To understand what I mean try it yourself. When you read MONA LISA what does that invoke in your own mind? What memories, or events, or pieces of information? Pictures? Can you see her? Can you hear someone telling you about her? Do you remember the first time or the last time? Are those memories detailed or vague? What makes us remember something and forget something else? Can we truly remember everything? What decides what sticks and what doesn’t? Could we control that?
When I went to start this section of this book, my first “interjection” I thought the best way to begin would be not with my life’s beginning, but the topic of the Mona Lisa inside my mind. The idea, or subject itself is like a folder in my head. It’s filled with different images, experiences, sounds, and thoughts. They have definitely changed and evolved rapidly from time to time - With an obviously huge leap forward about a year ago when I started this book.
·
As you’ve just read the first memory I have of the painting is from when I was about 5-9 years old. I had always thought it was an accurate memory and we really had a copy of the Mona Lisa in my house. But it seems now that it was just a dream or imagined. What’s strange about this to me is the memory itself. When I once believed it to be real, after trying to verify it from my Mom I realized it was impossible. This made me reconsider the memory itself. When did I first make that memory? Was it really when I was 6? Or could it just be a fuzzy starting point for the evolution of my memories of the subject?
When you think of something tangible you’ll usually remember either the first thought you had about it or the most recent- Or possibly the most relevant to the reason for invoking the thought itself. I was trying to remember the first time I actually saw the painting. That’s what brought about the scene of looking at her in my childhood. So either that really happened, or that’s what my memory interpreted to be the first time. I probably never assigned any great importance to the Mona Lisa while I was growing up so it’s left fuzzy.
Our brain doesn’t really know the difference from a dream and real life. It’s getting the same electrical signals; it’s our mind that interprets if they’re real or not. I can actually remember the progress of my “dream consciousness” and how it’s gotten more sophisticated. Where my dreams used to be strange uncontrollable events that I couldn’t distinguish from reality I’m now almost always the director. I can remember almost all of the nightmares I’ve ever had. The first one was when I was 6 years old after watching the movie Willow. There were black-monkey-like-monsters in the end that terrified me. There were also huge worm/ dragon things that ate them but it was the monkeys that scared me most. That was the first and one of the only nightmares I can remember ever having. Once you can recognize you’re dreaming, the fear of what’s happening fades. One of the most intriguing dreams I’ve ever had was the only dream that I’ve actually died in. In most death dreams people are so terrified it wakes them up. In mine I did not. In the dream I was at my old work. For some reason we all knew that there was going to be a nuclear explosion in LA that would almost surely destroy everything around us. Everyone was trying to board up the windows, as if that was going to do something. I remember thinking that I wasn’t going to spend the last moments of my life in fear, it didn’t make sense. So in my dream I decided to stop hiding and instead face my fate. I went to a spot where I could see LA and waited for the explosion as if I was expecting a fire works show. I think I realized it was a dream, but I tried to ignore that so I wouldn’t wake up. I remember being curious about what my mind would come up with when I died. What did I really think would happen when I died?
As the explosion came my way I just watched and waited with a smile on my face. I’m not going to lie; there was an empowering tinge of fear there too. After the wall of white light passed through me I squinted my eyes and waited for the burning pain. But it never came. Instead when I closed my eyes my dream went to darkness and turned into a blank screen with these words appearing:
Game Over
6 / 9 Lives remaining (I don’t remember the exact numbers but I’m pretty sure it was out of 9)
I was then crawling around as a baby on a kitchen floor as the memory of my death faded and I woke up. Wtf was that? Take your best shot Mr. Freud! In my dreams there is a dark fuzziness, a latent stillness that I’ve eventually been able to recognize. It’s a feeling of being too slow and not being able to move fast enough. It’s very distinct from when I’m awake since I have trouble slowing down. My dreams are like a predetermined environment that changes depending on what I do in my dream. A new set of circumstances form based on what actions I make. Usually my dreams seem to be working out specific problems in a very abstract way. Like putting myself in situations that I’m going to have to eventually face in “real life.” I really like dreaming. I would think that memories evolve along with your perception of the world. Memories change as you change. Where as I thought I must have had a copy of the Mona Lisa in my house growing up, I now realize that I must have confused or combined the first memory of looking at a painting with a specific painting (the Mona Lisa.) Then somehow all of that is stored in a dream like scenario of looking at the Mona Lisa in my house as a child. Hmm pretty weird! I can’t remember the first time I saw the Mona Lisa. I can’t remember what the painting in my house was really of. The only other old thoughts and memories of the painting are imagining it in France in a museum that I’ve never seen with my own eyes. I can actually see it on a map and what I imagined France to look like as a child. I see bricks and old buildings which I have always disliked for some reason. As a child cities seemed ugly to me. When I close my eyes and try to remember all I can remember about the painting before this book those are the only things that I see. I assume I learned about Mona Lisa in elementary school at some point or on tv, and that’s where the information came from. But how I remember it is uniquely my own creation – or my memory’s which seems to be apart of me, but not entirely me… Thankfully we seem to be more than just a compilation of memories and experiences. It makes me believe in at least some form of a soul. Something that is independent from memory, and experience, it’s something untainted. Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night Ill try to go back and remember everything I can from birth on, and in order. It’s like counting sheep, but a lot more involved. I’ve noticed that my memories seem to be stored by location. I’ll remember things as they happened in whatever house I was living in, the room it happened, the class room, etc. So as I go through my life, it seems to be dominated by locations, almost like maps inside my mind. They’re like visual blue prints of my life. I can’t remember dates, or what I was doing at a particular age. I remember events and locations. I can’t help but think its like “Defragmenting” my hard drive. Just like with a computer, my mind seems to work better if all the files are in order. Try it yourself! It helps distract you from whatever it is that’s keeping you awake.
I think it’s important to go over all my previous knowledge of the Mona Lisa so you’ll understand why it’s so strange that I’ve written this book. A 24 year old who’s only knowledge of art came from a Jr High Art class and whatever I’ve seen on television. I actually canceled a humanities class in college because I thought it would be boring. What about my life has enabled me to notice what I have? What has lead to this book and the discoveries I’ve made? These “interjections” are like a “blog” that documents the evolution of a thought, a memory, and an idea – The Mona Lisa. How I’ve gone from a few random memories to a totally unique and insightful understanding of the world’s greatest work of art. My purpose in including these “interjections” is complexly personal. I’ve struggled throughout my life with “being able to relate to others” (the definition of Autism) and to understand how they think. I couldn’t understand why people did the things they did. Why they would do things that hurt themselves. Why they believed or thought in a different way than I did. Then some how, I became the very person who once confused me. A person who couldn’t even understand himself -let alone the world around him. I guess the source of all the confusion comes from the fact that there are so many opinions about something that “should” only have one. When you consider that there are only two things in the world: Right and wrong. It makes you wonder why there could be anything else? It took years to truly understand what “Subjective” and “Objective” are, and that if you really want you could turn anything subjective. It took understanding confusion to understand reason. Writing a book about a painting has changed me. It’s forced me to focus on parts of myself that I didn’t know I processed. Things I thought only ancient philosophers and mathematicians could contemplate. But some how it’s a part of me; it’s always been a part of me. I’ve always been curious, I’ve always questioned everything. I couldn’t help it.. The question I should be able to answer, but can’t is -Why? Trying to understand the mind of Leonardo Da Vinci has unlocked a hidden genius in me. I don’t mean that in an arrogant way, but in a way that we all have that same potential inside of us. When I studied him I studied the essence of genius, I began to understand it. It became clear, and Da Vinci became apart of me in the same way you feel a connection to a character in a movie. When I studied him, a part of me became him. But in this strange transformation came a struggle. I had to let go of who I was, to become this new, and different person. I couldn’t be Derek anymore, I had to become someone else. I had to kill a huge part of myself to begin. I had to kill an even greater part of myself to finish. Change isn’t easy, especially for someone like me. I crave it, but then fear it. It’s been like working up the courage to jump out of an air plane, and then not being able to do it – over and over again. I want to give in, or give up, but I can’t. I wont. I promised myself I could – and I would. So I will. · My mom jokingly says that teaching me to talk was the greatest mistake she made. If you can imagine the classic childish dialogue of; why, why why barrage of questioning. Then you could imagine how she opened up a metaphorical “can of whys.” I’ve evolved from asking every question I could think of in my youth, to why we ask questions in the first place in my advanced years. When do I cross the threshold of non-youth anyways? I’m waiting! Besides my half brother Jason (on my Dad’s side), who is over 10 years older than me, I am an only child. In China they call us “little emperors” and for good reason. I was a very spoiled little toe- head. I remember transferring to a new school in 5th grade half way through the year. (I’ve been to 11 different schools throughout my life) There was a weekly ritual of the teacher giving everyone a treat, candy, cookie etc. The first time I participated no one told me that you had to wait until everyone else got their cookie before you could eat your own. So when the teacher gave me mine I ate it right away! Who knew? The teacher got mad and said something like
“Don’t you know you’re supposed to wait until everyone gets one?!” – No, why?
“Because if there isn’t enough to go around someone might be left out” – Why don’t you count them first then?
It would become a re-occurring theme in my life to doubt my teachers and what they said. I gradually learned to just ignore them instead of talking back. You’d be surprised how much logic is dismissed for strange social rituals, especially during public education. Most promote a subservient worker mentality rather than independent thinking. It almost seems like they try to weed out the individuals by forcing ridiculously mundane standards. Then at the same time they try to find those who can keep their individuality despite the programming. They try to find those at each end of the bell curve. The strong minded, and the sharp witted. Who can make it through and hang on to who they really are? Who gives in to peer pressure? Who can’t? But then also, who does and pressures others? I felt bad for “not sharing” but didn’t quite understand what the problem was. I had never developed a sense of sharing. Without brothers or sisters there isn’t such a thing. Da Vinci was raised as an only child as well. His Mother was a peasant and his father was a notary (like a lawyer) and due to the social ignorance of the time they didn’t wed. Leonardo spent his child hood being worshiped by his Mother and her side of the family but also surprisingly acknowledged on his father’s side. Da Vinci’s father re-married to a woman who was unable to give him another child so little Leonardo was, against the norm, accepted into his Father’s family. This created a unique situation for Leonardo. He was illegitimate, but also adored. The contrast enabled him to rise above his “class” but also not be subjected to it. He had the free time and freedom to pursue his own interests. He wasn’t given the “proper” education of the time but a lot of people credit the lack of conventional learning to his un-conventional thinking. Both Da Vinci and I benefited from a happy childhood, spent with liberal rules and expectations. We both have an innate fascination with animals, endless curiosity, and nurturing that facilitated, but not demanded, tremendous opportunities. Not to mention we both were living in times of tremendous, unmatched change. In short, we both had nature and nurture on our side. · My interpretation of the world around me has constantly been changing. It’s morphed from me being in my own little world to being able to step one foot in yours. Most of the time yours seemed nice, like a shiny diamond in the rough I had to obtain, but eventually I learned that it’s just an illusion. The world can be a harsh and pathetic place. I’ve always liked animals more than people. They’re honest, at least. My first and biggest dream was to have my own horse. I was going to name her Sugar Keeper.. Horses were my first obsession and my first sound “ ssssss” instead of “horse.” Seeing Horses was also the very first and oldest memory I can recall.
It wasn’t until my ninth birthday I finally got her, “Sugar”. By that time we had moved to Ramona and onto a 9 acre avocado orchard in a huge adobe house with three arched windows overlooking the property. It was a deal back then, but today it’s worth 3 million dollars or so. I never realized it until very recently, but I’ve lived a very privileged life. You definitely don’t appreciate what you have till it’s gone. Not because you’re unappreciative but because you can’t see something properly while you’re inside of it. I never really knew what anyone else’s life was like because I never really talked to anyone. So I just made assumptions - most of which were that I was inferior to everyone else. Why else didn’t anyone want to be friends with me?? Now that I’m older and able to look back *being outside of it* I realize it was me that didn’t want friends. Kids were immature and stupid to me, I didn’t “get them” at all.
The greatest thing about the adobe house wasn’t the house itself but the area around it. I didn’t have a back yard but my own personal forest. There were snakes, spiders, millipedes, coyotes, mountain lions, and pretty much every other Californian animal you could think of. I would spend my days seeing how many bees’ I could catch in one bottle. I would get a 2L coke bottle, turn it upside down, and put the end over a bee. Then keep doing it until I had enough, open it, and run! Surprisingly I never was stung. I was always doing something, walking somewhere, or catching some creature. Whenever it would rain there would be these puddles with tad poles. I remember getting the greatest sense of joy out of catching them and then watching them turn into toads. It’s like magic! I didn’t watch much tv growing up, the only show that interested me, on the only channel we got, was Perry Mason. I first wanted to be a Lawyer when I grew up. Then Michael Jackson, a marine biologist, a veterinarian, a director, then finally a super hero (like the x-men). Now I guess I want to be a writer– right?
My life could be considered as sequence of obsessions; Horses, Animals, comics, music, movies, religion, overcoming religion, cars, automotive design, animals, self image, writing, and then photography.
It was February 1997 that a new chapter in my life began; When I started writing to myself. At first I would write only a couple times each year. I would keep track of what time I went to bed, I really liked to keep track of things. That only lasted for a short while but my journals remained. I would write in spurts, for a couple days then not again for many months. It wasn’t until I took a psychology class my senior year that I started to write more intensively. As a project we had to write down what we did that day and the dream we had the night before. It ended up being the most memorable month of my life since it was totally documented. I liked it. My journals evolved and each time I would write I would go back and hate myself in my previous entry. I would be like “I was so stupid, I’ve changed so much” as I changed, so did my writing. It went from updates of events of the external world then into my thought processes and internal world that you could call a mind. I think the most significant aspect to my journaling was the refinement and development of an inner dialogue. I would start to think in complete sentences. Each thought was not an impulse but a paragraph, a sentence, and all in a written format. For example I would lay awake in bed thinking like this:
“What should I do tomorrow? Did I pay my cell phone bill? What day is it, what movie is out this weekend? Why did I wait till the last minute to write that paper? What time do I have to wake up tomorrow? Do I have work? Yeah I do, I wonder if she’ll be there.” Others think like this too- but some don’t. If you didn’t know a language what would your thoughts be like? I don’t remember how I used to think before that but it was more like impressions and crude emotions rather than words. The first time I can ever remember thinking in words (an inner dialogue) was when I would pray. I remember thinking – wouldn’t God already know what I want? Can’t he hear my thoughts all the time, even when I’m not praying? What’s the point of praying for anything if he knows everything? There was definitely a revolutionary point in my life when I began to think in words as opposed to whatever I thought in before that. My struggle with Religion overshadowed a lot of my life. I tried so hard to believe, even as a child. I would cry to God to make me believe. I wanted to so much. I lived the life of an un-hypocritical Christian. It helped me more than it hurt me. The scars didn’t come from Jesus, but from those who claimed to be Christians, but weren’t very Christ like at all. When I was 9 my parents divorced. My Dad literally went to live in a hole in the ground waiting for the world to end. I struggled between logic and faith. In the seen, and the invisible. Between compassion and revelation. I couldn’t understand why so many different people believed so many different things based on the same book. I grew up being ashamed of who I was. I hated it, but it made me strong. I learned to hate hypocrisy and ignorance more than people. I felt like I was the only one who knew what Jesus said “forgive them father for they know not what they do.” But they seemed like they knew exactly what they were doing – that was the source of the confusion. Something seemed wrong with the whole system. You could do bad things, then ask for “Forgiveness” and everything was fine? Even if you continue to do it again and again? It seems like if you know something was “bad” then you shouldn’t do it!? Right? I write through tears, with the latent fear of earth quakes and the anti-Christ. Maybe it’s the x-men, or maybe it’s the expectation for the “end times” that makes me want to prove my Dad wrong. That’s something to have faith in. Maybe we need to do more than pray. Maybe we have to save the world ourselves?
v
I guess looking back I learned to think like a writer – how I would explain my thoughts and what I was thinking in a way I could get out of my head and onto paper. It’s the most significant achievement for humanity and for myself – writing that is. After I graduated high school I got a job at the frost desk of a community association. It was about the perfect job someone could have who’s in college. It consisted of greeting people and making sure they were members and allowed to enter. I was forced to sit for 5 hours in the same spot with nothing to do but think, write, and read. It led to journals that were literally thousands of pages. Some were typed and some were hand written. Although I still didn’t have many friends I had a lot of people I would talk to online, usually having 5 simultaneous conversations with various people at a time. This re-enforced not just an inner dialogue but a complex written dialogue on almost a daily basis. AIM friends are better than real friends because you can sign off whenever you want which worked for me. I would even save the conversations that seemed significant. They became the memories that began to define who I thought I was. I would go back and read them and like I would in high school -hate who I was. “I was so stupid back then, I’m totally different now!” This would become almost a weekly occurrence. Online conversations enabled me to make friends in unique way. It also helped me become a better writer and reader not to mention being able to type like the wind. (With just my thumbs too!) I learned how to read between the lines, between what people said, and what they meant. Where as in real life I pretty much believed everything that came out of people’s mouths, online I could see and think about each and every response. I eventually learned how to gauge someone in a couple sentences. Although I didn’t have much experience with audible dialogue, I had more than most in written form. Another thing to consider about written conversation vs. spoken is the ability to go back and read, and re-read a conversation analyzing every letter vs. forgetting what was said 2min after. I learned a lot about human interactions. It’s significant to notice how technology can both dissuade “real life” interactions, but also prepare you for it. I was afraid to talk to people in real life, but online I had more time to think about what to say. I grew confident as I learned what to say and what not to! This was all enhanced by the introduction of text messages vs. talking on the phone. I learned how to convey the point, and as much information as possible in 150 characters or less. Most people have the luxury of saying something and then forgetting about it, I did not. I obsessed over every word until eventually the art of writing became second nature to me. I’ve had just about every simple conversation possible. I perfected the art of aim (Aol Instant Messaging). I learned to not just write to people, but to read them too. As I wrote and re-read what I had written I saw what I liked and didn’t like about myself. I would change what I could and improve myself in any way possible. I could see myself objectively. I could notice my weaknesses, my flaws, my strengths, my humor, and my own ignorance. I knew when I was lying and how I would word things and then notice when someone was doing the same to me. The only way to avoid this was to stop going back and reading anything. There are some parts of my life I leave purposely un-read and other parts I’ve re-read more times than I should have. Whether inspired by ghosts, God, or high school’s expectations I would imagine and try to act accordingly- as if there were a camera on me at all times. I remember thinking I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to be the best, act the best, and be the best in every way possible. I wanted to be like the cool kids, but didn’t consider it possible – but I would try. If you try to consider what makes one person better than someone else then you could also imagine my obsessive thoughts. I would observe everything, picking and choosing what behaviors to emulate. I was a chameleon, trying to act and seem normal. Wanting to be like everyone else, but then never taking the time to consider what I really wanted to be. It was like all of my school life was spent trying to understand what was cool and what wasn’t. Ironically, once I finally started to figure it out – it was time to graduate and I learned the secret a little too late. – There is no cool, everything I worked so hard to understand was just an illusion. It was false, wrong, ignorant, and thankfully obsolete. It gained me nothing but an inferiority complex – or so it seemed. School served its purpose. It taught me to act like everyone else. To not stand out in a bad way, to drain the uniqueness out of everyone – to conform. I finally understood. Everything I was trying to be, was everything I could never be. I was different but I could fake it extremely well. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut, mimic the people who were praised, and smile. Always smile. My class was one of the first to implement the new standardized testing. The ones which you had to pass before you could graduate- to insure the schools were teaching you enough to move on. Ironically for the written portion we had to write about friendship. Hahahaha Something like what friendship “meant to us.” I was the only one in my entire class to get a “no write” because instead of writing about how important friends were to me. I wrote about how mundane and stupid everyone in high school was and how I thankfully had no friends. Although my paper must have been different enough to be considered off subject, when the time came to graduate I didn’t have to re-write anything. I was proud of myself. Try to imagine that you had a video camera on you every time you did something stupid or foolish. Imagine how much different you would live your life. You would see how stupid you were and then hopefully not do it again. You would eventually get rid of your bad habits and behaviors and replace them with better ones. I thought I had to be perfect so I was always acting as if there were a camera on me at all times. I guess the problem with that is considering what “perfect” really is… I guess that’s what I was unknowingly trying to figure out. Now imagine that you’re not video taping your life but documenting every thought. So not only do you remember what you did, you remember what you thought. Your mind itself would change as you would re-read your own description of it. I actually thought I was being judged on my inner thoughts, just as much as what I actually said out loud.
Here’s a list of 10 Rules I came up with from my 2003 Journals:
“I have learned a lot, here is (are) some of the most important. 1. Don’t talk about you’re self in a way to make you sound full of (yourself) 2. Don’t give more information than is required. 3. Don’t give in unless its something you want to do. 4. Learn to love yourself before you learn to substitute than on to someone else. 5. Don’t become involved with someone who has more feelings for you than you them (in the long term) 6. Never let anyone make you do anything you don’t want to. 7. Don’t complain about anything. 8. Although it’s the only thing that will make you happy, never be content… 9. Give yourself something to do other than nothing. 10. Never care!
Those are some nice rules Derek, but good luck actually following them! I tried and failed. That was the year I finally ran away. Emotions s u c k e d. The people who made me feel them were even worse! I’ve battled OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) constantly. A battle you can only win if you give in, which isn’t easy. Have you ever had a bug bite that itched immensely, but would only get worse if you actually scratched it? Its like you want to do anything to make it stop itching, but the only thing you can do is to ignore it. OCD is like wanting to scratch and fix everything you perceive to be a problem, but then only making it worse since you can’t just scratch it, you have to tear into it – over and over and over. You know you shouldn’t, you know you have to stop, you know you’re doing something stupid, but you have to scratch it one last time, every time. “just this last time” “just this last time” again and again. There is no resolution because you have to STOP. But with me, I couldn’t – it was an obsession. It’s a battle with you. A battle you can’t win. I’m an “OCT”, obsessive compulsive thinker. I can’t turn it off. The only thing I could do was get whatever was in my head – out. If it weren’t for my journals I don’t even know where or who I would be.. To enhance the experience I’m an energy drink addict. (hopefully was by the time you read this) I’ve had more than one a day since I was 16. Sometimes only one, but most of the time 2 or 3. Sometimes 4 or 5. At 2$ or more a piece, it’s an expensive habit. Not to mention it increasing my rate of thinking from already compulsive to caffeinated compulsive. I probably have more thoughts in a day than most people do all month. It has its advantages as much as it has its drawbacks. I work fast and efficiently. But it’s those thoughts that can’t have a resolution that can take literally years to over come. A problem with no solution for someone like me leads to a circular pattern of thinking. For an example I would worry about sweating which would make me sweat more. The only way to stop, would be to stop thinking about it. Not possible. I could sweat through anything. You can’t actively stop thinking, it’s something you have to ignore. I couldn’t. The only way around it was to find something to actively do that worked towards a solution. I found an anti-sweat product online that made it so you couldn’t sweat – problem solved. After a month I didn’t even need it. I forgot to obsess about it. I’ve had to conquer things that most people never think twice about but at the same time it’s that same struggle that’s made me stronger. Where as some people struggled with school and work- they were a welcomed distraction. Things that the more I thought about, the easier they became. I could get whatever grades I wanted. I just usually didn’t care. I don’t remember ever studying, ever. It’s interesting to note that sometimes you have to dumb yourself down, to stay cool and not stand out. Smart people were made fun of. They ruined the curve. I would use writing as my release. I could eventually teach myself everything about myself. This was later enhanced by going to college and expanding my knowledge as well. Although I don’t have a degree I have enough credits for one. I took a lot of different classes which added to my knowledge of the world and gave me more information to work with and write about.
It made me realize that although people think they know something, no one really knows anything. That everything we think we know, is probably wrong. That because we think something is true, doesn’t make it true. I learned that it wasn’t my lack of knowledge that led to my frustrations but my lack of understanding. It’s not what you know, but how you know it. Basically it fulfilled the void and lack of explanation for the world that I had always attributed to religion. Miracles, morals, rules, could be explained in more ways than one. He would always say “If this were an autobiographical class you would get an A.” It’s not important what YOU think, but why you think that way. It made me realize that “maybe” was better than yes or no. That being a shade of grey is necessary before you make up your mind.. I learned how to think.. I learned about logic – a way to saddle my thoughts. To reign my mind. To control its direction – to harness my endless thoughts into something productive. If there isn’t a clear answer I’ll figure out all the possible answers. If there are two ways of thinking about something – I’ll understand both. I might not know everything, but I could try to! So I learned how to write by writing. To think by thinking. To write about everything I was thinking. It explains how I’m able to WRITE this book, but why… Is another story completely.
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Ironically I named my second puppy "Mona", unfortunately she "ran away" after only having her for a few months. I still don’t believe the story that my other dog “pushed her under the fence!” It was the first time I had ever doubted something my parents told me but wouldn’t be the last… The next memory I have about Mona Lisa was written in my journals from High School. I put “Mona: almost perfect” I can’t remember what I meant. It was in the “future thoughts” section I always kept so I could have stuff to write about in my next entry. I’m inclined to think it was about a girl, but I really can’t remember at all. It’s weird because I can remember everything else that I listed in that section BUT that. The only thing that comes to mind when I think of any girl I ever actually knew named Mona was in an animal health care class. I don’t know why that comes to mind, but it's the only thing that does when I read that part of my journal. If it had been about a girl, why would I say "almost perfect" but if it was about the painting why wouldn't I have put MONA Lisa? It's interesting that I draw a blank for that. It seems like something I would have remembered because I usually remember everything mentioned in my journals. As for Mona’s maker; Leonardo Da Vinci. I recall him being barely mentioned in my history class Junior year. When I remember what I used to know about him I only see a picture of his flying machine and a thought that he was crazy. I was too young and immature to value his genius. I distinctly remember what class it was and where I was sitting and my thoughts about it, but not really what was being said. In school I only retained what I thought was important at the time which wasn’t much. Like I said my memories seem to be stored by the location of their source. Like a mental blue prints of my various houses, schools, class rooms, and cars. The memories are stored there. Years later and or whatever reason I bought a book called; “How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci: Seven Steps to Genius Every Day” by Michael J. Gelb.
I remember thinking for the first time; “wow there’s someone to look up to in the world! I want to be a genius!” I finally had a role model, someone to look up to where as before I only found people to look down on. Curiously the same ones who demanded respect deserved it the least. Why was this strange man from 500 years ago the only person in my entire life I had ever been able to identify with? Why were we so similar – how could we be so similar? When I read about him, when I read his journals it was as if I was reading my own. Not the subjects but the method. The logical, intensive, obsessive barrage of thoughts. The need to know. To HAVE to know…
If you couldn’t tell, my life, and my education were nothing remarkable. I was just an eccentric kid trying to act as normal as possible. I tried to be like everyone else and only succeeded in understanding enough to finally realize I didn’t want to be like anyone else. My first interjection is significant because it isn’t. I hated myself until I was about 19. I went to a normal High School, a normal community college, I had what I thought was a normal life. My external self wasn’t anything like my internal self. I struggled between the two. The struggle made me stronger. You would expect this book to be written by an art historian, or some intellectual professor. I’m neither. Everything that happened to lead up to me writing this book was mostly random. If there is a single thing that I would give credit to that lead to this book would be my journals. It wasn’t what I was taught, or what I thought about – but learning how to understand my thoughts.
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