I could blog about relatively trivial matters for months on end (assuming I bother to blog at all), but the problem is that I might thereby fail ever to articulate what’s at the heart of why I blog.

And of course, it’s possibly a good thing I thusly fail, since the deepest reasons may be all but unintelligible, but I remember what Joss Whedon said regarding his knowledge of Firefly’s imminent demise, to whit, that it forced him and the other writers to make each episode count, knowing that it might be their last, which also reminds me of Annie Dillard’s advice to writers: “Blow your wad.” By which I think she meant: Don’t hold back your best for later.

With these things in mind, here goes.

I suppose the scandalous truth is that, at the heart of me, I’m not really an anarchist. Shocking, I know. Shocking, but—for anyone who’s been reading my blog—not really surprising. Anarchist describes something that is at the heart of me, but it serves as an adjective, not as a noun. What I am, to start with the obvious, is me. Like you, I am unique. Also like you, I fall prey to certain stereotypes. One of those stereotypes, for me, is introspection. I am obsessed with figuring out who I am, and if I’m really honest, I’ll admit that I’m a little bit in love with myself, whoever I might be. I think I’m pretty swell. Smart, affable, modest, sincere, original, ironic, with a good sense of humor, a talent for writing and a nearly comprehensive understanding of the human condition. What more could a super ego ask for?

But at the very core of me there are not many words. There is only the primitive, inchoate ground of my being. Were I suddenly to become Anthony Hopkins’ character in that movie he did with Cuba Gooding, Jr. where he’s accepted into a band of gorillas, there is a substantial part of me that would be thoroughly content. Nonverbal, nothing to do all day, eat when you’re hungry, shit when you’re full, follow the leader, bludgeon a poacher to death when a gang of them attacks the family… . In other words, I am generally content with merely being. No doing required.

Except that, according to the liberal sources I’ve been reading, doing nothing is the same as accepting and perpetuating my white (male, hetero, cis-gendered, ablist, Western, etc., etc.) privilege, and I really don’t want to do that. (And blogging against such things is merely “slacktivism,” so really I need to get up off my dead ass, go out there and actually do something to fight against my kind, who have all the power.)

I could, to begin with, go down to NYC and participate in the occupation of Wall Street. I could even get excited about doing that. Really. It’s just that, well, damn, I’ve got all this writing to do, and I’m so content with merely being, and in the frantic busyness of the society in which I (through no fault of my own) live, that’s such a great spiritual discipline, and, and …

I’m sure you’ve heard the joke:

Descartes: “To do is to be.”
Sartre: “To be is to do.”
Sinatra: “Do be do be do.”

which is also a confession, of sorts: a confession that I believe the whole debate to be somewhat ridiculous. I’m just out here living my life, same as you, same as Nelson Mandela, same as Donald Trump. What we are called to do is be ourselves, and that’s a difficult test to fail. Yes, there’s a distinction to be made between contentedly being and simply being complacent, just as there’s a distinction between actively fighting injustice and ignorantly perpetuating colonialistic modalities, of trying to be the great white savior, or whatever.

But my essential question is much more self-centered: Is writing (my writing, not your writing or writing in general), a sufficiently noble quest at this point in my life? I have three options before me: Continuing on as I have been for the past three years (with both the being and the writing) is the middle road between returning to some semblance of a responsible adult (which would entail getting any kind of job that will pay) and becoming some version of a radical disciple of Jesus (by leaving the security of my parents’ house and traveling alone, homeless and hungry in search of a community who will accept me as an equal: equally poor, equally homeless and hungry, equally in search of the life of joy God planned for us all long ago).

The latter option is strangely appealing and naturally terrifying. The responsible adult option is naturally appealing and strangely terrifying. So for now I’ll eschew both the high and the low roads and try to rev up the rpms along the Media Via.

The only question left is: Was this post an arena for wrestling with essential questions or merely a pointless exercise in self-justification?

And I have but a single answer: Yes, I’m filled with uncertainties, misgivings and self-doubt, but if I’m going to keep writing anyway in spite of all that, then I really need to stop wasting my time with navel-gazing and start writing the way I’ve always wanted to write: whole-heartedly,* unapologetically and (to the best of my ability) brilliantly.

Don’t you try to stop me.

*I can choose all three roads half-heartedly, if I want to, but devoting myself whole-heartedly to any one of them precludes whole-hearted devotion to the other two, and I’m someone who wants to devote himself whole-heartedly to something. But such a choice does not preclude half-heartedly pursuing the other two. The “correct” choice, of course, is to devote myself whole-heartedly to being a disciple of Jesus, but that, as I said, is naturally terrifying. It is also, naturally, terrifying not to choose that option, not for fear of hell, but for fear of ending my life without accomplishing what I was put here to do. I can protest that I was put here to write, but what if I’m wrong? Does it matter? Do I really matter that much in the grand scheme of things? Didn’t I say something about no more navel-gazing? Sheesh. It’s not as if I haven’t struggled with this question before. Sometimes I feel like I never stop, which is kind of my point: I need to stop. Now.

Seriously.