Welcome to the first post of this new blog. It is—where all things must be when they begin—in helpless infancy, so much beholden to the author’s will for life. Into the first steps of a great voyage one might ask: it is rightly directed? What is the purpose of our motion? Have we courage for the course (so rife with uncertainties), to conduct ourselves into untrodden ways and to forsake familiar comforts for bleak wilderness?

These questions were pondered at some length. Why begin a task with no clear end? What hearty homestead awaits this traveller, his fretful journey past? And where then shall he find himself? Attend, O patient reader, and you will know.

I have words for those who listen. In this era of postmodernity where murky self-designations haunt the honest tongue I am first a poet, as (in the mind of Wordsworth) a man speaking to men. Whatever wisdom has attached itself to me through books and lived experience will here find an opening into the world, to be passed along like worn banknotes, or familiar anecdotes that join one man to his friend and bond him to his brother. 

The life of one who writes must be true to its purpose in spite of difficulty. If Thomas Mann is to be believed, “A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” Like a drunkard stumbling over his own feet, he checks himself most pitifully and snubs the purpose wherefor he was born. As for myself, I have been praised for my voice and speech and can find no good reason for the continued suppression of these talents, viz expressing my thoughts in their most native form. 

So I urge upon anyone who reads this to dwell upon the question: what are my strengths and how do I use them? Your fate cries out, your phantom self implores that the potential you are filled with be achieved with action. Shall a keen sword sleep idly in its sheath, or catch the radiance of the cheery sun? For borne aloft it glitters from the jewel-encrusted hilt to the very point, and is pride unto its owner. Let us be all that we possibly can and bonify the essence of this life.

Now passing to the prevailing question that confronts any new enterprise. What do I hope to achieve by the pouring forth of words? Why this: to capture and record my passing thoughts, finessing them into polished anecdotes, soaring verses and passages of sombre self-reflection; to share these with kindly strangers; to form a community around the notion of living creatively, poetically and authentically; to join with my readers and fellow writers in striving towards satisfaction. We cannot aim for greatness—it is within our power to please but a few, though if we apply strength to our craft consistently, perhaps fortune shall reward those who try. The best place to find a helping hand, after all, is at the end of one’s own arm. Meantime the hopeful part of me longs to live by this untested craft, which yet in my grip handles like a blunt instrument, to be reworked with much whetting. I long for the day when my words might land acceptably, whereupon it is right to expect some reguerdon. 

Peering ahead then, what do I foresee? It is not altogether clear where this path leads, for as a wayfarer straining his eyes through a clearing fog, I can only make out the trail that winds beyond. But I intend by this personal blog to feed my interest in literature, history and current events, inviting opinions and sharing insights in an atmosphere of curiosity. Leading on in easy steps, it is my hope to uncover more of truth, meaning and joy on this slender thread of the worldwide web. Now with these words the blog draws its first breath. Conception is a blessing but birth is better—and may it go the way of nature, broadening with the nourishment of effort and time. For all who would join me an adventure awaits: let us go forth to meet it.