The Big Shebang, or, The Author Gives a Semi-Explanation, or, A Possibly Illuminating Untroduction of the New Blog, "Harelip Prayers"

It's finally occurred to me that what the whole point of achieving something fabulous and earth-stopping has always been was to stop the earth—that is, to stop the flow of time. Somehow I thought that if I could do something awesome enough, I would not fall victim to those things that define me as a mortal. I could become, actually, immortal; though the delusion's never stretched far enough to blot out certain death at the end of the line, it did drop a comforting veil over a lot of other shitty certainties about living. I thought that time would stop for me, if only I could pull hard enough to get ahead of it.

This has been articulated many times, by many people who are much smarter than me. Maybe it's the kind of thing you have to see to believe. After so many years in a weird gritty torpedo implosion, though, one might realize that the center is oneself. Whether or not it sounds like bullshit when one writes it as one's first entry in one's anonymous online journal, which one has chosen not to preface with any kind of face-saving disclaimer.

Alternate entry titles:
Why I Kind of Actually Want a Farm and Seven Adopted Laotian Kids
Boringly Famous or Famously Boring
Household Drudging: Doing and Liking It
Non Is Not Under (Achievement) (No seriously!)
The Opposite of the Opposite of The Ten Thousand Things

The point is, although it's blasphemy in an American society to say that a plurality of experience is not the only way to be happy, I've begun to suspect that:

1. since there's no way to stop time, and life happens anyway,
2. and therefore the choices that you don't make affect the course of things as profoundly as the choices that you do make,
3. and eventually you just die, THEN the only choice you have is to
4. fumble around like a blind fool wearing a clownsuit, and
5. possibly tell stories (for myriad purposes), knowing
6. that things will "end up", albeit maybe not “like they should”, and that
7. someone ought to be keeping track of the marvelous patterns things tend to create when left to their own blind-fool-in-a-clownsuit type devices.

The final moral of the big shebang being: I want to be a writer, and publishing "works" on a blog, even an anonymous blog, makes me feel like a bumbling, stumbling, fumbling, silly blind fool in a clownsuit. But man, I am bout to give out if I do not. And I have a tug, a sort of obligation, that I don't know the source of, that says to watch and see what designs my stumble-bumbling might draw up. So watch out, Horatio Alger. These are my harelip prayers.