Incipit Vita Nova
In celebration of 20,000 visitors since I started counting on 2003.06.12, I'm not above quoting Dante. In the original Italian. And Latin. Ahh, Life's Rich Pedantry.
I started thinking about the topic at hand last night, which led me to watch the final episode of Buffy again. There was a scene in that episode that aped a scene from the very first episode of the series. So, in turn, I was compelled to watch the very first episode from my DVDs.
This was not a search for closure or for literary bookends. There was no dysfunction driving me to turn an ending into a loop in order to avoid the pain of Things Passing.
Instead, there was the realization that Time is merely an agreed-upon stage upon which our stories unfold. Implied there is the notion that we are an audience, captive in a finite house.
You'll excuse me if I find that rather dreary.
It strikes me as odd that the full multimedia experience of being alive has been pigeonholed by vulgar consent into a dimensionless vector. It strikes me as odd that people somehow find that comforting instead of maddening. It strikes me as odd the desperation in the voices of those who claim solace in hanging their worldviews from the soft white underbellies of Absolutes.
In overlaying the scene from the very last Buffy onto the very first, I didn't create the loop so much as interrupt the ordinal. In an instant I leapt seven years back.
In another moment, seven and a half forward to now, to January 12, 2004. Another ordinal. Another day. Another year since the last January 12, and the prior and the prior and the prior, and for my part, I could make the leap back to a time before I was born, to the January 12 of 1958 when Allen Howland was born. Then forward another 37 1/2 years to the day he died.
Back to now, back to then, back to the day we met. Back to a Beginning. Forward to an Ending.
Forward to a Beginning is a much cheerier prospect, though, isn't it? But you don't need motion to get to a Beginning or to an Ending. Endings happen, find one in your own memory, if you're up to it.
Beginnings happen, too, though. Every moment, if you've got the energy for something like that, or almost never, if you're so dourly inclined.
The linearity of Time can stop making sense, has stopped making sense for me. If Time is a path, it brought me the wonder of Allen Howland. It brought me the wonder of Sam. It visited the POX upon me, visited the death of Allen upon all those who knew and loved him.
The linearity of Time demands judgment of one thing in order to serve another. Should I be grateful that Allen was removed from me in order to serve the presence of Sam? Should I feel guilty for such gratitude?
Obviously it's not that simple.
Renewal. I choose how often and when I am renewed.
Choice. Any choice limits you somewhat. Not choosing limits you entirely.
Limits. Renewal resets the bar.
"So begins a New Life."
"In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life.’"