I have posted elsewhere on the importance of process. Process has always fascinated me far more than results. Indeed, I have often – perhaps mistakenly – preferred to see process as result.
But last Thursday I changed as a result of my graduation. And whether the result of process or the process of result, I am a different man today.
To get dirty is no longer something I wish to avoid. When I say dirty, I mean in the sense I think Auden once said: “to get down amongst the dirty dirty” was, I believe, his advice to all aspiring writers.
I never did – in fear of doing the wrong thing. Well. In the past year, I have done little else except the wrong thing – my middle son, in particular, as well as other notable members of my family, bears huge witness to this very reality already this quarter. And so it is that no longer should I resist committing these terrible errors of judgement that so rigorously damn one in the eyes of polite society everywhere.
What can be the point, after all? I have gone way beyond any pale that stripped any human being of their dignity.
And yet … and yet. Here I am, and here I stand, and here I graduate, and here I move forward, and here I battle, and here I fight, and here I shall continue – without ceasing, ever! – forthwith.
Sometimes you have to do wrong to learn how to do right. I mean, really wrong to do really right.
My WordPress profile now reads as follows:
I used to be a storyteller. I still love ideas, exchanging them and following them to their logical conclusion. It’s time, however, I stopped enjoying the good so much, and started – instead – documenting and preventing the bad.
And so it is. And finally, that is what studying International Criminal Justice for a year at MA level teaches you. Life is a game, of course; no doubt about that. But it is in no way a trivial pursuit.
And a game that has been played me for much much longer than I care to remember.
A game whose result never comes.
A game whose process only unspools until the infinity of one’s life completes its circle of eight that final time …