Zenitram Ttam

I've spent a lot of time alone recently. It may be because I stay up past the witching hour and sleep until I have to go to work in the darker parts of the afternoon. Or possibly because I have a long commute to work, so it just seems that I'm always in a state of mind for reflection. The scenery zipping past seems to compel me to look inward at the same rate. Regardless... as of late, reflection is the way of mirrors and Matt Martinez.

I miss my friend Matt Thomason. He would always take a mundane situation and swirl it around like so many tea leaves preparing for a reading. He often called me Zenitram Wehttam. Zenitram Ttam, for short. He would giggle, as if conjuring a new nominative attribute might endow me with the same onomatopoeic robot features that it implied.

Sometimes it did.

I'd repeat it, “Zenitram Ttam,” and do a gawky impression of the dance.

He'd laugh again.

I've grown to know Zenitram Ttam better than I probably should. He doesn't speak much. He holds eye contact for uncomfortable lengths. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm around, although he tends to back away if I do.

He thinks he has big ideas. He fancies himself creative, knowing full well that creativity implies a created object. He gets excited about things that haven't happened yet. He reads nonfiction books solely for their value as a metaphor and enjoys them greatly. He pursues a vibrant spiritual life. He's friendly and outgoing most of the time. He loves his girlfriend and tries to call every day before and after work. He has little old Italian ladies visit him at his part-time job with bags of chocolate that they hide in their purse until he gets them, “so that the other guys don't get jealous.” He has Catholic and Muslim coworkers that love him. He was deeply pleased when the Japanese sushi guy and Venezuelan cheese woman got into an argument as to whether he was a Japanese “twin brother” or Venezuelan “my boy.”

“No, baby, that's MY boy.”

He lives in the future and forgets that it takes the present to get there. He neglects friendships, perhaps mistakenly assuming that they'll be there when he finally becomes worth being friends with. He sometimes chooses to sleep rather than do important life tasks. He sometimes doesn't love his girlfriend with enthusiasm. He flirts with universalism and worries that he may slide down the slippery slope of atheism if he's not careful. He caught himself standing by his car during a break today, blinking at the sun and realizing that he really hasn't stood in sunlight for quite some time.

Zenitram Ttam changes, too. Sometimes it's hard to tell, but it happens. Subtle shifts from day to day.

I think that he looks older than he used to look.

I wonder if he thinks the same about me.

So, if I may, I'd like to list a few things that I've learned from him. They aren't profound, but I don't care. Perhaps profundity comes in the accrual of many simplicities.

The more you are alone, the more your ego grows. You can't really help it. You can't really notice it, either... until suddenly it's bumping its massive head on the ceiling and you have to deal with it. It's a result of a lack of perspective. Many perspectives balance your own limited one. Humility comes in conjunction with community, with whose “boy” you are.

If there was one piece of advice I'd dare to give anyone who comes after me, it would be that the most important choice in life is what community you allow yourself to be a part of.

One of my favorite quotes is said by the character Ender in a book by Orson Scott Card. “I find out what I really want by seeing what I do.” That idea has lodged in my head and won't shake loose. It is never more true than when you are alone... it's like the definition of character that I was taught growing up: your character is who you are when no one is looking. You find out what you really value by seeing what you do when you are alone. Just the realization of this truth is enough to help you change it. Or at least arrange it more ideally.

Some guy once said that “the unexamined life is not worth living.” That's easy to say when your life is mostly in hindsight. It's another thing altogether when you're trying to build a life from nothing. How about “the examined life takes your eyes off the road.”

There's a concept in acting that might be relevant here: dual consciousness. I was trying to explain this concept at a rehearsal for my improv small group last week. It's the idea that an actor is aware that he or she is onstage in front of an audience, but is also fully immersed into a character. It's kind of what acting is all about; you exist in the present and the future at the same time, mentally (duh). As an actor, you are constrained by what you have to do as the character. You have a mark to hit and objectives to fulfill. But you also have to position yourself to be fully visible to audience, avoid surprising your fellow actor into messing up or breaking, not knock over set pieces, remember lines... you have to maintain more than one focus, and do it believably. [For bonus points, I dare you to perform while being existential about your real life...]

It's kind of like driving a car: going forward while glancing in the rear view mirror and back up and down at the gauges and back up. With the sun in your blinking eyes.

It's kind of like living life while examining it at the same time. Without knocking over set pieces.

It's kind of like making friends with your reflection and learning from his mistakes.


Sometimes I smile at Zenitram Ttam.

Occasionally his return smile seems... ironic.

… that punk knows something that he's not telling me...