Enlightenment and My Progress (Or Lack Thereof): Lesson 3

Interesting it is to consider the factors and choices that have (or have not) led up to the present moment. Countless philosophers discuss the switchbacks, crossroads, and forks in the road of determinism, some believing there is an ethereal cosmic law that governs our actions, others holding that everything is at its best random and unpredictable. This latter school of thought supports the individual’s mastery of his or her own destiny—taking the Bull of Fate by its horns and yelling ole!—while the former simply implies that our fates are already decided by natural laws or, more abstractly, by a higher intelligence that often goes by the name of God. Personally, I tend to pace back and forth between both camps. Sometimes I believe that there is indeed an indescribable force shaping my decisions and molding the choices I make into a sculpture of some higher purpose (see common cliché “Everything Happens For A Reason” for more details). On the other hand, though, I can’t ignore the attractiveness of the feeling that life is mine to create, and there is no wheel of fate other than that which I choose to spin.

But, today, Fate won a serious battle in the War of My Beliefs. With the change-over in the fiscal Japanese year rapidly approaching, there have been numerous shiftings, moves, re-adjustments and substitutes within the International Exchange Center where I work for part of each day. We have a new staff member joining us to replace the woman who will be expecting a child soon, and as a result there have been some adjustments regarding where I should sit. With this period of upheaval on the horizon, it was decided that my desk will be moved across the room to the island near the door where Mr. Snoogles himself sits.

As of today, I now join Mr. Snoogles’ once-isolated structure of papers, computers, fliers, and random collectibles—he welcomed me to his denizen with the exclamation:

“Welcome to Johnny! You now join the Old Ash Man!”

I thanked Mr. Snoogles for his warm welcome, but chose not to inquire into what exactly an “Ash Man” is, lest we fall deeper and deeper into the vacuum of Mr. Snoogles’ complexity. However, on a relevant note, I was lucky enough to receive a quick karate lesson on the Spider-Leg Move, which Mr. Snoogles gracefully demonstrated in the office for me. As far as I can tell, it is a multi-directional lunge used to either surprise an opponent with an attack, retreat from and opponent’s attack, or avoid an opponent’s attack. He then followed the demonstration by predicatbly asking me if I had ever seen the movie “The Goonies.” I replied that of course I had, so he proceeded to grill me with questions about the character Sloth and where he fell in the birth-order of the Fratelli Bothers. I was forced to admit that I didn’t know, but guessed that he was perhaps the middle or even the oldest child. Mr. Snoogles, however, looked unconvinced. The discussion was then brought to a close when I replied that no, I have never bashed mailboxes with a baseball bat as depicted in the movie “Stand By Me.”

I can see that this recent development will prove to be quite helpful in my quest for Enlightenment, and I owe this pleasant supplement to my daily meditations to none other than the force of Fate. After all, I would not so much as dream to foolishly assume that my recent change in desk locations was simply the result of some random twist of Chance. No, I can be sure that this is nothing short of a divine power’s intervention into the progress of my spiritual awakening. I am confident that great things await Mr. Snoogles and me.

Enlightenment and My Progress (Or Lack Thereof): Lesson 2

Awakening is the superlative of achievements in this life, yet the question remains as to whether or not it is in the average human’s reach. Countless religions have stressed the importance of having a true teacher—a guru of sorts—through whose teachings a radical expansion of mind of body can be realized. Krishnamurti, of course, would disagree, saying that enlightenment for all sentient beings is completely and autonomously attainable: we need only wipe the dust away from the mirrors of our own minds. Of course, this process of cleansing takes years of hard work in deconstructing the negative habits and filling in the deep psychological potholes of the individual psyche, but it is nevertheless a very real possibility. I, myself, reside somewhere in the middle of these two schools of thought, and right beside me, with his frozen grin, sits my teacher-but-paradoxically-not-my-teacher: Mr. Snoogles.

I drink lots and lots of water. Good ol’ H2O: so simple, so healthy. Very seldom am I without my trusty water-bottle, and I have become somewhat obsessed with making sure my urine is crystal-clear at all times of the day. However, my love for water and dedication to hydration has certain repercussions, the most obvious being frequent trips to the men’s bathroom on the second floor of the building in which I work. It is here that I visit no less than 8 times a day, and, as mentioned earlier, where I tend to experience the most progress with my goal of enlightenment. And this is in no small thanks to Mr. Snoogles.

Mr. Snoogles, lacking a working knowledge of context in interactions, extends his obliviousness to basic urinal etiquette. I’m not the first one to tackle the issue of urinal mannerisms; in fact, to see a more in-depth explanation of the intricacies involved, please see Dave Barry’s “Complete Guide to Guys.” But for those of you—namely, women—who are unfamiliar with the inner-workings of the urinal community, allow me to briefly illustrate the rules with an example:

There are 5 urinals in a bathroom, none of which are taken. A man enters the bathroom, and out of all the choices, the most appropriate one is clearly a station at one of the ends. A second man enters, and his most appropriate choice is the end station opposite of the one already taken by the first man. So, there are now three open urinals sandwiched between the two taken ones. A third customer walks in. Obviously, his only choice is the middle urinal with one “buffer” (Barry 2000) urinal on each side of him. If a fourth man enters the bathroom while the three out of five urinals are being used, he must simply wait until one of the end stations or the middle one opens up (unless of course he wants to break the rules, take one of the “buffer” urinals, and make everyone involved very uncomfortable).

Thus, to summarize, the rules state that at a five-urinal structure, only three urinals can safely be in use at a given time. I do not know why this rule exists, but I have observed it, learnt it, and habitually embody it whenever I choose to participate in the ilk of urinal culture.

Now, in the men’s bathroom on the second floor of the building in which I work, there are seven urinals, which any person with an elementary school math education can deduce that an increased number of urinals offers greater mathematical possibilities in the way of appropriate urinal etiquette. That is, the margin for lavatorial faux pas exponentially decreases with addition of extra stations. Now, with there being seven urinals in the men’s bathroom on the second floor of the building in which I work, the likelihood of making bathroom blunders is fairly slim, and in order to do so, you have to purposely break the rules...or not have an understanding of them at all.

After a morning of monstrous water-consumption due to a groggy hangover, I entered the men’s bathroom on the second floor of the building in which I work to empty what others have opined to be a bladder the size of a small infant’s. All of the urinals were open, and I responded by taking the station at the end of the line farthest away from the entrance. I was releasing myself when ENTER: Mr. Snoogles. Upon spotting me he sidled up to the urinal directly NEXT TO MINE and just looked at me with those glazy, enigmatic eyes. I was amazed at the fact that not only had he chosen the least-appropriate urinal in the set, but he has also broken another unwritten rule: he openly acknowledged the man standing next to him (me) who was in the middle of a rather private act of nature. The only thing I could do at that point was giggle, and Mr. Snoogles continued to stare at me while looking like he was about to say something, all the while he himself urinating. After considerable time (in urinal-time), he finally says to me in his classic over-emphasized drawl:

“We, internal, have same clock!”

He finishes before me, and leaves as abruptly as he came.

The lesson? Simple: we are all connected. Two people, although having the illusion of occupying two different physical spaces and minds, are neither different nor the same. They merely are. The problem goes back farther than mere Cartesian dualism; since the beginning of human thought, we have been marking up our physical and psycho-spiritual worlds with big fat invisible markers, making lines here and drawing boundaries there. The words behind Mr. Snoogles’words were challenging me to ask WHY do we have urinal etiquette, and this inquiry snowballed into multiple questions into the general nature of the things we observe to be external (or in this case internal) to us. In the end, Mr. Snoogles was trying to tell me that the dichotomy we make between things—in this case, urinals and how they relate to personal space—is what leads to ownership (MY space, YOUR space), which leads to craving (I WANT my space), which leads to suffering (WHY OH WHY is Mr. Snoogles so freakin’ close to me right now?), which is the expression of what it means to be in the cycle of samsara (the men’s bathroom on the second floor in the building in which I work). In the end, his alleged invasion of my space was really no invasion of space at all because there is no such thing as “my space” (except on the internet).

It's obvious I have some more spiritual weight-lifting to do because if urinal etiquette really is a metaphor for suffering, and reincarnation holds up to be true, then I will most likely be born an amoeba in my next life. But, on the other hand, amoebas don’t have to use urinals...or even have bladders for that matter.