I washed up and went to the group dinner where Psalms were read aloud and talking was strictly prohibited. Later, Brother Andre ushered me to a small, simple room with a cot and a sleeping mat on the floor where I lay down for the night.
The next day, I said to Brother Andre, “I need to talk about some things going on in my life and mind, do you know who I could talk to?”
“Yes,” he said, “Brother Christian would be a good man for you to talk to about such things.”
I met Brother Christian and we went for a long walk in the desert. I unloaded my feelings of guilt, the low and lecherous places my mind had been traveling, the perverseness of my thoughts. “Since becoming famous,” I professed, “I’ve tried to be a good man, to not lie and deceive myself, to be more pure of heart and mind, but I am full of lust, objectifying other people and myself. I do not feel a connection to my past nor see the path to my future, I’m lost. I don’t feel myself.”
I shared the demons of my mind for three and a half hours with Brother Christian. I took myself to the woodshed. He did not say a word. Not. One. He just patiently listened as we wandered side by side through the desert.
At hour four we found ourselves back at the chapel sitting on a bench just outside the entrance. Now weeping, I eventually came to the end of my confession. We sat in silence while I awaited Christian’s judgment. Nothing. Finally, in the unrest of the stillness, I looked up. Brother Christian, who hadn’t said one word to me this entire time, looked me in the eyes and in almost a whisper, said to me,
“Me, too.”
Sometimes we don’t need advice. Sometimes we just need to hear we’re not the only one.
Greenlight.
both are true
I’m an optimist by nature, my eye is high, I have hope, and the man I want to be sleeps in the same bed with the man I am, in head, heart, spirit, and body. I don’t always enjoy my company because of that son of a bitch Jiminy Cricket, but I am rarely able to knock him off my shoulder either. And for good reason.
Even when I’m out of tune, off frequency, having trouble feeling any traction or viscosity between my being and my actions, or, alternately, when I am so lost in the music that I am unaware, my best self is always there, and he will start the Socratic dialogue sooner than I choose to hear him and long after I want to, because he’s insatiable.
I, of course, eventually do hear him, then the challenge becomes, to listen. Once I do, and stop pitting fate against responsibility, truth against fiction, sins against who I wish I was, selfishness against selflessness, mortality against eternity, I learn, and then begin just being who I am, and doing what I do, for me—not for anyone else and for everyone else at the same time. For me and God, together. Then I realize I am responsible for fate, fiction is truthful, a sinner and saint I am, an egotistical utilitarian as well. I’ll be mortal forever.
Now, each step at a time has the big picture in mind, and I am the man I want to be, Jiminy Cricket is a bluebird on my shoulder, and Socrates has one voice.
* * *
I didn’t mishandle my newfound fame as much as I just didn’t really have a handle on it. I was numb, occasionally dumb, and picked a few battles that did not need picking. If I was thrown off balance for a bit, it was mainly because I gave a damn, and it mattered to me what it all meant, and didn’t. Mostly I danced lightly between the raindrops. I enjoyed being able to finally put super unleaded gasoline in my truck, picking up the tab when I went out with my friends, getting the backstage passes, and working with so many talented people. I tried to remain a gentleman and accept the caviar, fine wines, and “I love you”s with grace, but a lot of it felt like the maid was still pressing my jeans after I asked her not to. I made sure to call my mom every Sunday.
Only it wasn’t my mom I was calling anymore.
It wasn’t my mom who was listening to me.
It wasn’t my mom who was talking to her son.
It was a woman who was more enamored with my fame than I was.
This was never more evident than when I got a call at home from a friend one night.
“Dude, are you watchin this?”
“Watchin what?”
“Put it on Channel 7, Hard Copy!” my friend says.
I turn on the tube. Put it on Channel 7 and…
There’s my mother, talking to the camera that is following her through our house on a guided tour.
“And this is the bed where he lost his virginity to Melissa, I think her name was, anyway, doesn’t matter, she didn’t last…And this is his bathroom, just a shower, no bathtub, and you know what I caught him doing in there! Ha-ha, but trust me, it’s no big deal, I’ve seen it plenty of times.”
Oh. Shit.
I call Mom.
“Mom, what did you do?”
“What?”
“Hard Copy.”
“What Hard Copy?”
“Mom, I’m watchin it right now; you are, too, I can hear it in the background!”
“Oh, that…”
“Yeah, that!”
“I didn’t think you’d find out.”
“Mom. It’s on national television. How would I not find out!”
Sadly, my relationship with my mom was strenuous for the next eight years.
“Loose lips sink ships,” I kept telling her. She tried. It didn’t matter, she couldn’t help herself. She wanted a piece of my fame, and while I was still finding my balance with it, I wasn’t self-assured enough to share it with anyone else, especially my own mother. The more she wanted a piece of my place, the more I locked her out. If Dad were alive he would have loved my success, but unlike Mom, he would have been in the front row, not trying to steal my show.
With Mom, as soon as I’d show up she was saying come back soon, so I started leaving early. I’d give her an inch and she’d take a mile, so when she didn’t meet me halfway, I started walking twice as slow to make her wait twice as long. I quit sharing any of my life or experiences with her; I couldn’t trust her. I didn’t need another friend on my bandwagon, I needed my mom, and unfortunately she was on another type of extended vacation.
Years later, with my feet more firmly on the ground and my career established, I finally said fuck it, and loosened the reins on her. She was in her seventies and I figured I might as well let her have all the fun she wants to, and to this day she does. She loves the red carpet, doing interviews, and telling the world she “knows where I got it from.” Her.
She’s got a point.
the art of running downhill
Don’t trip yourself while running downhill.
That mountain you wanna climb?
It’s just around the corner.
Don’t invent drama.
It will come on its own.
* * *
It’d been four months since A Time to Kill had been released and I was in high demand. Warner Bros., who I had signed a three-picture deal with prior to doing A Time to Kill, was anxiously anticipating my next role. Dozens of offers came my way, I even started a production company to create material of my own. I was hungry to go to work, I just didn’t know what I wanted to do. One of my strengths has always been that I can find an angle on anything, but now, with the ability to do almost anything, that strength was a weakness. Every project looked possible to me.
Feeling pressure to make a decision on my next movie, smothered by the blind affections of my recent fame, and having a new wildcard for a mom, I wanted to go somewhere where nobody knew my name. I needed to reaffirm that I, Matthew, not my fame, was justification for any adulation I received. I needed to go someplace where any affections I collected would be solely based on the man those strangers met and got to know after I arrived, not before. I needed to hear myself think—to check out to check in—so I could settle in to my new position of leverage and measure it, get less impressed wi
th it, find some discernment, and figure out what kind of role, in what type of film, I wanted to do next. I needed some starvation. Then…
I had a wet dream.
Yes, the involuntary intercourse-, hands-, and fellatio-free nocturnal emission of semen one has while sleeping. Rare but welcomed, these lucid dreams most commonly involve a theme of sexual activity. This wet dream was not common.
I was seeing myself floating downstream on my back in the Amazon River, wrapped up by anacondas and pythons, surrounded by crocodiles, piranhas, and freshwater sharks. There were African tribesmen lined up shoulder to shoulder on the ridge to the left of me as far as my eyes could see.
I was at peace.
Eleven frames.
Eleven seconds.
Then I came.
I woke up.
Whoa.
All the elements of a nightmare but it was a wet dream.
Greenlight.
What does it mean? I wondered.
There were two things I was sure about in the dream. One, I was on the Amazon River and two, those were African tribesmen on the ridge. I got out of bed and grabbed my World Atlas, then turned to the continent of Africa.
And started looking for the Amazon.
Well, as you probably know, you can look a mighty long time for the Amazon River in the continent of Africa because you’re not going to find it. I looked for that river for two hours until I realized…
Wrong continent. The Amazon’s in South America.
Damn, dreams can be tricky. Nevertheless, it was a sign, and just what I was looking for.
It was time to chase down my wet dream.
* * *
I crammed my backpack with minimal clothing, my journal, camera, medical kit, a hit of Ecstasy, and my favorite headband, then embarked on a twenty-two-day solo trip to Peru to find, and float, the Amazon River. Yes, the one in South America.
I flew to Lima, then on to Cuzco, where I met a guide and we mapped out my three-week journey to the Amazon River over anticuchos*2 and pisco. I hiked the Andes and along the Urubamba River into the lost city of Machu Picchu listening to John Mellencamp’s Uh-Huh*3 album on my Walkman as I climbed. Then, I took a bus, boat, and plane ride to get to the largest city in the world you can’t get to by car, Iquitos, the “Peruvian capital of the Amazon.”
It was the twelfth night of my twenty-two-day adventure and I was settling into camp. I’d already hiked over eighty miles to this point and tomorrow I’d finally be in the waters of my wet dream, the Amazon River. Up to this point in the trip I’d had a hard time being present, so excited in anticipation of what the Amazon would mean to me, I had missed most of the beauties getting there. Still wrestling with my identity, I was guilt-ridden over sins of my past, lonely, and disgusted with the company I was keeping, my own.
In my tent, grappling with my demons, I couldn’t sleep, so I quit trying to. Instead, I stripped off my clothes, along with every badge, banner, expectation, and affiliation I had on me. I discarded my American baseball cap that was my totem to patriotism, the Celtic knot pendant that symbolized my Irish heritage, the Lone Star flag amulet that stood for my Texas pride, and every other mascot of inspiration from adventures past. I even discarded the gold ring my father had given me that was made from a meltdown of his and my mom’s class rings and gold from one of her teeth. I removed every idol that ever gave me comfort and security, pride, or confidence. All the window dressings and representations, the packaging around my product, was gone. I even punched myself in the face a couple of times for good measure. Who was I? Not only on this trip but in this life. Now naked and stripped down to nothing, I was only a child of God, and nothing more. Soaked in a cold sweat, I vomited until there was no bile left in my belly, then passed out from exhaustion.
* * *
A few hours later, I awoke on the thirteenth morning to a rising sun. Surprisingly fresh and energized, I dressed, made some tea, and went for a morning walk. Not toward my destination or any expectation, but rather to nowhere in particular. I felt great—alive, clean, free, bright.
Walking along a muddy path, I turned a corner and there in the middle of the trail was a mirage of the most magnificent pinks and blues and red colors I had ever seen. It was electric, glowing, and vibrant, hovering just above the jungle floor, pulsing as if it was plugged in to some neon-charged power plant.
I stopped. I stared. I backed up a pace. There was no way around it and it was no mirage at all. The jungle floor in front of me was actually a kaleidoscope of thousands of butterflies. It was spectacular.
I stayed awhile gaping in wonder. Captivated, I heard this little voice inside my head say these words,
All I want is what I can see,
all I can see is in front of me.
No longer in a rush to get anywhere, or anticipating what was around the corner, coming up next, or up ahead, time slowed down. I raised my chin to the sky and said a quiet thank you, then glanced down the path just past the massive menagerie of levitating butterflies, and there, for the first time, I saw the Amazon River.
The tower of all my anxieties now lying down laterally in front of me just like that slow-moving river, for the first time in months I was at ease.
* * *
A few hours later I returned to camp to pack for my continued journey. On arrival my guide called out to me in Spanish, “Sois luz, Mateo, sois luz!” Meaning, “You are light, Matthew, you are light!”
Now forgiven, I’d let go of the guilt, my confusion was gone, my penance felt paid. Back in good graces I shook hands with myself. From that morning on, I was present, embracing only what I could see in front of me, and giving it the justice it deserved. For the next two weeks I hiked, canoed, and even macheted my way through the Amazon rain forest on my one hit of Ecstasy.
And, yes, I floated naked on my back down the Amazon River, but no snakes, crocodiles, sharks, or piranhas enveloped me as they had in my dream. I guess they didn’t have to anymore. On the final day, while bathing in the river, I did see what looked to be the final wave of a mermaid’s tail as it slid beneath the water’s surface heading downriver. I waved back.
I had crossed a truth. Did I find it? I don’t know, I think it found me. Why? Because I put myself in a place to be found. I put myself in a place to receive it.
How do we know when we cross a truth or a truth crosses us?
I believe the truth is all around us all the time. The anonymous angels, the butterflies, the answers, are always right there, but we don’t always identify, grasp, hear, see, or access them — because we’re not in the right place to.
We have to make a plan.
Greenlight.
God, when I cross the truth, give me
the awareness to receive it
the consciousness to recognize it
the presence to personalize it
the patience to preserve it
and the courage to live it
First, we have to put ourselves in the place to receive the truth. This noisy world we live in, with its commitments, deadlines, fix thises, do thats, and expectations make it hard to get clarity and peace of mind, famous or not. So we have to consciously put ourselves in a place to receive that clarity. Whether that’s prayer, meditation, a walkabout, being in the right company, a road trip, whatever it is for each of us.
Then, after we’ve put ourselves in this place to listen to the gospel and hear their music, we then have to be aware enough to receive it, and conscious enough to recognize it. It will arrive nameless because it is clear, omnipresent, unanimous, and infinite. It usually lands like a butterfly, quick and quiet. When we let it in, it needs no introduction.
Then the relationship can begin, and we need the presence to personalize it. This is where the anonymous truth gets intimate, and becomes autonomous. We ask our self what it means, how it’s u
nique to us, and why it’s here now.
Then comes a harder part, having the patience to preserve it— getting it from our intellect, into our bones, soul, and instinct. We must pay attention to it, concentrate on it, keep it lit, and not let it flutter away. This takes commitment, time, and ’tendance.
If we make it this far, after we’ve put ourselves in the right place to receive the truth, recognized it as such, made it our own, and preserved it, then comes the coup de grâce…
Having the courage to live it. To actually walk away from that place where it found us, take that truth with us into the screaming arena of our daily lives, practice it, and make it an active part of who we are.
If we can do that, then we are on our way to Heaven on Earth.
Where what we want is what we need.
Where what we need is what we want.
* * *
I returned to Hollywood and soon made the decision to play the role of Palmer Joss opposite Jodie Foster in Robert Zemeckis’s Contact. After my spiritual journey on the Amazon, my choice to inhabit a man who believed in God in a world of science was very close to the truth of where I was in my own life and where I wanted to spend my time in front of the camera. Jodie Foster was the clear lead and people questioned why I took “the girl’s role,” as they called it at the time, instead of taking other leading roles I was being offered. But I was more than satisfied with my choice, as I was interested in what I termed “philanthropic roles and stories of self-discovery,” as well as working with great directors.
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