Beginnings

I was once asked if I could picture heaven, something I could see myself doing with pleasure forever. I thought about this for a long time and I finally came up with an answer. I think eternity could be somewhat bearable if you could ensure endless beginnings, which isn’t to say there would be no endings. You’d have to have those. Think of the juggling act it would require if there wasn’t.

No, endings and beginnings validate each other. Give each other meaning. For me, heaven would be like a library whose shelves extended infinitely – each tome within it’s own experience, no two the same, yet each universal. As you read each one, you grow and change. Endless beginnings.

If you choose to see endings as a kind of payoff like in a story or a piece of poetry, than beginnings become even more important. Critical, even.

Which is why I’m tiptoeing around all this.

So first of all, manners. I’m a firm believer in them.

Those of you who may be here because of my recent excoriation of a certain portion of the electorate on Facebook may be shocked to hear me say this, but it’s true. Especially in public.

I’m the guy who holds the door open for you. I’m the guy who is hyper aware of where I’m standing with my cart when I’m grocery shopping. If I block your view, I’ll look you in the eye and say pardon me. I let people in front of me in traffic. I’m also a terrible terrible human being. In private. To myself. In dark flights of fantasy that everyone has but only the disturbed act upon. Out in public, face to face, I am a gentle person who keeps more or less to himself. I am slow to anger and easy to appease. I would much rather laugh with you than fight with you. As much as possible I avoid conflict and provocation.

Never, however, mistake my politeness for weakness. What I say here is public but control over it is not. I reserve the right to be rude. Brutally rude. I see rudeness as the blunt instrument one uses short of an actual blunt instrument. Best used sparingly if at all.

But this isn’t to say I’m unaware of the responsibility attendant to speaking my mind. Whatever I scrawl on these digital walls is for everyone to see. I’m not trying to hide my identity so this means I’m accountable for everything I say. I own it.

Perhaps because I try to be unfailingly polite in public I come across a bit strong in print. Good. Also, I like quotes. This one from Christopher Hitchens fits:

My own opinion is enough for me, and I claim the right to have it defended against any consensus, any majority, anywhere, any place, any time. And anyone who disagrees with this can pick a number, get in line and kiss my ass.

• “Be It Resolved: Freedom of Speech Includes the Freedom to Hate,” debate at University of Toronto, (2006-11-15). 

Now that is out of the way: Welcome! Sincerely. If you like the table I set, it will thrill me beyond measure. To you, good reader, I make this vow: I will tell you the truth as best as I can discern it. I’ve come to think there isn’t a better beginning point for anything (especially morality) than a respect for the truth.

That is, of course, much easier said than accomplished. It is in fact, the very essence of… oops, sorry. We’re still getting to know each other and I don’t want to scare you off before I’ve even finished introducing myself.

Eternal beginnings. It’s a daunting prospect. Which makes starting this pack of paragraphs seem much less so in comparison. I have a sketchy vision of what I’ll be doing here – it will be part cave drawing, part message in a bottle, and part sacrificial altar. It will also be a mirror, a workbench, and a therapy couch.

You’re welcome to pull up a chair and watch the movie, shrug and leave, or just stick your head in from time to time. I’m easy.

A long lost love once asked me what it was like to write for an audience. I told her it was like swimming out to sea at night from a tropical beach into warm lapping waves lit by a low full moon. Against the vault of the sky, a dusting of stars exquisitely placed because you put them there yourself.

I also told her you can never fully enjoy it. Why’s that? She asked. Because, I said, the whole time you’ve been in the water one of your veins was mingling with the sea….

And something just brushed your foot.

Oh and because I promised to be honest with you: I also write bad poetry. Might as well be upfront about that from the beginning.

This is going to be fun.

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