6.

There are two things schizophrenics usually have some neurosis about: religion, and sex. I’ll probably get around to neurosis about sex eventually. However: religion.

I used to be quite religious. This was when I lived in an apartment in Los Angeles with two others. Imagine three men living together, each of whom has one mental illness or another, none of whom is very motivated to clean up after himself, or clean up after anyone else. Furthermore, imagine that this is in West Los Angeles, a few miles inland from Venice Beach, where cockroaches even infest the streets, and are seen usually at sunset coming out of the storm drains and scrambling about. Imagine this, and you may get some notion of how many cockroaches we had in our apartment. I used to open the cabinets in the kitchen above my head, and they would be running in circles all about the inside of the door, some of them falling onto my shoulder. I was used to it, though. I had lived like this for years. But I digress.

In those days, I was determined to live up to Jesus’s commands such as are found in the Sermon on the Mount. I went to a small Seventh-Day Adventist congregation every Saturday, and prayed passionately, unloading everything in my heart, every morning and evening. Whenever I thought of treating myself to a candy bar, I said to myself, "That 65 cents could go to the homeless," and if I ever gave in and bought one, I felt guilty, as if I had cheated the homeless. If an acquaintance were in particular distress, I would fast for 48 hours, taking only water, to pray for the person. The more I lived like this, the more I was sure I would be canonized as a saint one day. The more I thought I would be canonized as a saint one day, the more I felt guilty for committing the sin of pride. You might say I was very . . . focused. Yes, I was very focused on my religion.

Anything that smacked of obscenity, anything that had to do with "dirty" lust, I avoided. I was aware enough to know that it would be unhealthy to quit masturbating (though I did try a couple of times), but if I looked at the underwear ads in the newspaper, I felt guilty. I hardly ever did. I imagined my ideal woman in these days. She was modestly dressed, never said a curse word, had nothing impure in her heart. One day, I was in the Santa Monica College library, and I noticed a young nun in a habit sitting at one table. I found myself wanting to start a conversation with her; I was very drawn to her. I sat across from her. I made eyes at her. I thought of starting a conversation, but something told me it would be terribly inappropriate. I realized suddenly that she was a nun, after all, and left.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes: religion. This is a picture of my most stable, longest lasting experience with a particular religion. It didn’t make me happy. Gradually, I grew bitter toward it. That was before I converted to Islam. Which was before I left Islam and began taking classes at a Catholic church in order to prepare for my baptism (I have never been baptized). Which was before I grew nervous about getting baptized and quit the classes, and went back to Islam. Which was before I left Islam again. Now, I will try with a feeble effort to make all the five daily prayers and drink no alcohol for a few months, and then give up and leave Islam again, only to return later. A Muslim would say I need more faith. I think I need less. I am glad I’m only going through the motions with religion now. I know what it’s like to have strong faith. It made me so unhappy that I have become somewhat bitter.

My paintings are mostly Expressionist pictures of anguish with crosses here and there. There is one I am looking at right now (it is on the wall I face when at my computer). It is a crucifixion scene, with a solid black circle over Jesus’s face, and concentric black circles surrounding it, going out in waves to the edges of the paper. The last time my sister was at my apartment, she commented on the paintings. "I would think someone like you would think it’s blasphemous to put crosses in those paintings," she said. She knows how devoted I used to be. "Those paintings make it look like you’re bitter toward religion." "I probably am," I said.