Standing at the edge of a subway platform, Nathan is doing his best to make it look like heâs waiting for a train. Heâs swirling his head in precise patterns, protecting the word genius from being corrupted in his mindâand in general. Itâs just another evening in his exhausting search for his next taste of absolute certainty and safety.
A theater student at NYU, Nathan learns that embracing creative uncertainty is essential to his craftâbut offstage, heâs unraveling. Each morning, Nathan spends hours shaking invisible dust out of his clothing so it doesnât fall from him as he walks and destroy the sidewalk. He transmits an imaginary orb of energy between his shoulder and his bedroom wall to make himself worthy of friendship.
Set against the magnificent ferocity of New York City, Path Illogical is a raw, intimate memoir about how far one young man is willing to go to ensure that every moment is a smashing success free of unknowns. What kind of life is one that is unsure, after all? Is Nathan willing to find out?
Standing at the edge of a subway platform, Nathan is doing his best to make it look like heâs waiting for a train. Heâs swirling his head in precise patterns, protecting the word genius from being corrupted in his mindâand in general. Itâs just another evening in his exhausting search for his next taste of absolute certainty and safety.
A theater student at NYU, Nathan learns that embracing creative uncertainty is essential to his craftâbut offstage, heâs unraveling. Each morning, Nathan spends hours shaking invisible dust out of his clothing so it doesnât fall from him as he walks and destroy the sidewalk. He transmits an imaginary orb of energy between his shoulder and his bedroom wall to make himself worthy of friendship.
Set against the magnificent ferocity of New York City, Path Illogical is a raw, intimate memoir about how far one young man is willing to go to ensure that every moment is a smashing success free of unknowns. What kind of life is one that is unsure, after all? Is Nathan willing to find out?
The northbound express train barreled up the west side of Manhattan, carrying me along in its trembling hull to the Drama Book Shop near Times Square. The bookshop boasted the type of gentle, domestic lamplight that so rarely graced New York interiors. There, I got to be among fellow artists without being expected to interact with them and delve into plays without being required to finish them. I was traveling there from Bushwick to check off an assignment from my senior-year scene study professor, but I planned to get thoroughly distracted by whichever plays called to me once they were within armâs reach.
I watched as everyone aboard the train swayed and jerked in the same directions at the same time, as if we were a bucket of bait. I stole sacred glances at my fellow travelers. Two men in my train car descended into naps; one laced his hands over his gut and let his frown sink into his jowls like wet clay, trying to look threatening so no one messed with him while he was asleep. The other was younger and fought his sleepiness more acutely, as if telling me his stop was close without saying a thing. An attractive woman in her early thirties bookmarked the book in her hands, closed it, and straightened herself as she nudged her glasses up her nose. She seemed to be looking for something toward the top of the wall opposite her, but maybe she was just seeking to discourage the male gaze by feigning attention. I remembered women were not here to be understood by men; I moved on.
The ads above my head had been colonizing my peripheral vision the whole way, so I gave one of them a glance. The ad across from me read:
InsuranceGenius
Fuck, I thought. I looked away as quickly as I could, as if reading it was like catching an unpleasant eyeful of my grandmother in the nude. I looked straight down, and my bottom lip started trembling involuntarily as my heart inched up my throat. Did that really just happen? I thought. I read the word genius. Thereâs no way to unread it.
The blood in my body gradually sank to the soles of my feet, and my eyes became distracted and jumpy. The train was no longer occupied by people of substantial interest; it was just filled with swaying, clothed bodies. I tried to stay still so as not to cause alarm, and I haphazardly assembled a strategy.
I turned my back on the ad so I wouldnât inadvertently read it more than once. I need privacy, I hissed to myself. My breath labored to enter my lungs like I was trying to stuff a scarf into a locked trunk. Okay⌠I need to get off this train, like, now, I decided. I needed solitude, yet I would settle for the Manhattan version.
I adored the concept of the word genius more than that of any other word. There was no limit to the power of anyone who fit the description of this word. But in the termâs limitlessness, there was no easy path to defining it. Now, because I read it, every opportunity I would ever have to comprehend what genius could mean for me was being destroyed with every passing second.
I canât do it here. No way, I convinced myself. I knew what I had to do to solve my increasing dread. It just had to wait.
I tucked my chin, squeezed my eyelids shut, and griped, What kind of insurance company has that word in its name? And how could I have possibly read it?
I opened my eyes and lifted my head again. It was as though every person on this train now relied on the stillness of my facial muscles for a sense of general safety. Everyone would remain okay as long as I didnât reveal my inner panic or start my ritualistic response aboard the train. More rushing darkness crowded the car. I stared coolly through my agony, acting for the sake of my neighbors like I still had my wits.
The trainâs brakes engaged. The black shroud that had surrounded the train for a few miles was replaced, at last, with glossy, white-tiled walls. Then, the sight of people milling about in open space. This was the pat on the back I needed: a station, any station. I waddled to the doors, lugging my numb feet with me. I widened my stance to stabilize myself as the train slowed. I faced the sealed door that would open any moment now. Any moment now. The train screeched to a stop, and I politely squeezed around the commuters and tourists as I broke through the open doorway.
The air shifted from the controlled climate of the train to the wild dampness of the metropolitan underground. With it, my mindset shifted to hare-brained urgency. I hunted for an area where I could stand apart and begin my rite. I found a section of the bumpy yellow strip at the platformâs edge where I felt no prying eyes. I took a breath and let out a tiny, excited squeal that only I could hear because I had found a place to perform my inane observance without interference.
Before me was an expanse of black tunnel wall that would serve fine as the backdrop I needed for this process. Frantic laughs from a group down the platform sparked my instinct to look. Then, dutifully, I faced forward again. That was the last sound I would let breach my attention until I was done.
I felt similar to being on the pitcherâs mound in Little League, getting ready to throw the ball. There was no external signal for when to throw it, only when it felt right. And I knew it had to come at some point. So I got my footing, reminded myself that I had to pose as though I was waiting for a train, and I began.
I conjured the image of four frames in the air in front of meâbrown outlines hanging there in space. I focused on the first box. I bounced my line of sight within the box in the shape of a concave curve back and forth between the curveâs endpoints four times. My neck took on the learned mastery of a conductorâs wrist, and my head was the baton, precisely flicking through the air.
The first quarter of the ritual was nearly done. This is to safeguard the meaning of genius, I reminded myself. The wordâs ability to elude standard definition terrified me. Its significance to human welfare overpowered me. Now, any truthful meaning this word could have in my life would be lost to me if I didnât perform the rest of this procedure correctly and with appropriate vigor.
I usually performed this act in the comfort of my apartment. If I inadvertently encountered the word genius in writing or heard it said in a movie, I took the blow on the chin and resigned to sliding to the foot of my bed and drawing the shapes through the boxes against my closet door, uninterrupted. That was the usual way this procedure played out.
With breathless concentration and successfully resisting eyeing my neighbors to see if anyone had noticed me, I certified that I had completed the first box appropriately. Then, I brought my glance just below the lineup of frames and muttered what I always muttered at this moment in the performance, âNot really.â
This phrase, the first time I ever engaged in this behavior, had felt like what I chose to say. Now, it was what I had to say.
Like a tightrope walker who couldnât afford to consider his ego or any other distraction, I brought my gaze to the second square frame. I beganâ
I felt someoneâs vision adhere to me from down the platform. I didnât even see them. I felt the sick trance they were in, staring at me. I darted my head straight to the personâs legs with low, blue flames in my eyes and saw khaki pants. I wasnât willing to make eye contact with anybody just then, but I hoped my acknowledgment of the onlookerâs lower body would discourage them from continuing to stare at me. I turned forward once again.
I beheld my dear canvas, but saw only a wall absent the four requisite frames. Wait. Seriously? I cried internally as I winced. That person actually managed to break my concentration.
This isnât right, I thought as I desperately pressed my tongue against my bottom teeth. I gave myself some moments of sweat-inducing repose. I had to wrap my head around how to restart the procedure, not appear insane to my neighboring travelers, execute it flawlessly, and maybe maintain some sanity. I tweaked my head to face a bit to my left and readied myself to pick the delicate baton up again. Then, I felt an unwelcome billow of air rush in from down the tunnel.
âOh, fuck,â I said under my breath. The train headed downtownâthe one my body language was saying I was waiting forâwas arriving. The black wall I needed was about to disappear. I hadnât considered that the train might veer into the station before I finished my duties. Turning away from the platformâs edge, pacing around the benches in the middle of the platform, and all but twiddling my thumbs as I waited for the train to pass was a non-option. I pleaded with myself to remember the importance of what I was doing: Iâm responsible for preserving what genius means, I reminded myself.
With the next exhale, I released all my pride. Screw it, I thought. I started swinging my head again like it was the lure at the end of a miniature fishing line as I faced the first box, copying the same lines I had drawn minutes earlier. The silver-bodied train squealed and hissed to a stop before me. The walls of the train can be my new backdrop, I thought. I didnât have that good fortune. The train doors opened right at my nose.
Torrential blue, red, and yellow flooded out of the train car. With some effort, I made the colors and motion my new muted backdrop. As frenetic conversation and laughter gusted through the doorway, I continued drawing my cardinal lines as subtly and accurately as possible.
The need to perform without error reached a crescendo as my shifting watercolor background did everything in its power to break my focus. I thought I saw a husky man with a large, blue IKEA tote bag slung over his shoulder. There seemed to be a panting dog lying down beside him. I made all signs of life an out-of-focus blur behind what mattered more: the four outlined boxes between my face and the train.
My hands started trembling. I made myself press them against my thighs. I made it to the second box for the second time. I slid my feet to my right to get out of peopleâs way like a puppeteer was adjusting me. I completed the circuit through this box. I looked slightly below and muttered, âNot really,â at a volume I believed no one could hear.
The recorded subway announcer stated that the train doors were closing. I spent a nanosecond appreciating that this was a good thing. The doors shut and locked. I swung my eyes slightly to the right to the third box. As if I were trudging through the thick mists of a nightmare, I made an upward-facing V, a downward-facing V, and placed two dots in the middle of each V with my gaze against the rushing trainâs body. I said under my breath once again, âNot really.â The train rumbled away from sight, and my trusty black wall replaced it.
My face was a red-hot bed of embarrassment. I hadnât made eye contact with a single person aboard the train. I didnât even make the obligatory smile at the dog on the train floor, if that cluster of brown and white was even a dog. I didnât signal that I knew I was the same species as the others aboard the train. I just stood, offering no good reason for planting myself at the boarding area and not boarding the train.
I had come this far. It was time to finish.
My line of sight painted a large X in the final box, then placed two more dots in the upper and lower regions of the X. Then, as my calves quivered slightly, instead of mumbling any phrase, I raised my view to the upper right corner of my field of vision and let it hang there for a few seconds.
Then, I stepped off the mound. My puppet strings were snipped. I had finished.
I felt breath enter my lungs for the first time since reading the insurance companyâs promotion. The meaning of genius, though no more clearly understood, was safe for future use. I pivoted my body in a few different directions and located a sign with the stationâs name on it. I cautiously read it, convincing myself that it was highly unlikely to see the word genius on municipal signage, but one could never know. I finally identified where I was: Park Place. I was closer to the Book Shop than to my apartment, but I would have needed to board a train to get to either place. I was not ready for that.
I let out a deep sigh that I made silent by shaping my lips into a circle. My fingertips no longer vibrated from the threat of losing contact with my favorite term; they were numb as I slid them into my pockets. The ritual hadnât eradicated any of my anxiety. I knew this. It had condensed that billowing sheet of anxiety that had flapped in front of me all that time on the train into a dense, little ball that would pulsate at the bottom of my gut for a few more hours until mostly fizzling out.
I mounted the stairs back into the open air, where there were puddles on the concrete and glass installed in the sky. Maybe I ended up in a movie theater that night; maybe I crept through drugstore aisles looking for a chocolatey trail mix. Whatever I ended up doing, I spent hours mentally vacillating while trying to find my footing in reality. I was overcome with a sense that I had acted heroically by guarding such an important and esoteric idea, even though I didnât necessarily have to; simultaneously, I was mortified that I had spent so many minutes submerged in a behavior I knew was nonsense. As usual, the pride edged out shame to ultimately define my evening.
During my year as a medical intern, I was almost always late for work. This wasn't because of having slept in or traffic on the way. More often than not, it was the door to my apartment. Iâd walk a quarter of the way to the hospital only to turn back and return, panicked that I hadnât locked it. What if someone slipped in and planted cameras, intruding into my private space? Even after locking it, Iâd stand staring at it for at least a minute, tugging and turning the lock to make sure my eyes aren't lying, committing the scene to memory so I couldnât later accuse myself of forgetting. That was my daily dance with OCD. It was exhausting and irrational.
So when I picked up Nathan Kastleâs Path Illogical: A Memoir of NYC and OCD, I recognized myself on every page. Kastleâs honesty is searing, his metaphors arresting. In the beginning chapter itself, he recalls an instance while commuting where he believed that âevery person on this train now relied on the stillness of my facial muscles for a sense of general safety" -- the line perfectly captures the absurd weight compulsions can carry. Or when he describes condensing a âbillowing sheet of anxietyâ into a dense ball lodged in his gut after a ritual, which was an image so exact I felt it in my own stomach.
But it isnât only the OCD that makes this memoir compelling, itâs also the way Kastle explores identity, loneliness, and the hunger for greatness against the backdrop of New York. His allusions are incredibly on-point, whether it is his mother sinking into the comforting and logical âsofaâ of her belief that he was a lonely child or the way socializing became digging for âpersonality coins". They give language to feelings a lot of us have probably never been able to voice. His years at NYU acting school, fueled by unadulterated passion yet overshadowed by intrusive doubts, is a reminder of how ambition can collide with mental illness in painfully human ways.
Reading this, I walked on the rope between recognition and awe. Recognition because I know the 'pride-shame' tug-of-war after completing a compulsive 'ritual' and the constant bargaining: Am I willing to give up my comfort for the sake of my health? Awe because Kastle manages to render these private agonies into a set of prose that feels both informative and poetic.
It is possible that my strong reaction towards the book comes from living with OCD myself and a reader without it might not feel the same visceral jolt. But even then, Path Illogical delivers a strong punch. It offers a rare and unflinching window into the disorder and what it means to live inside a mind both brilliant and burdened.