In the beginning there was a vapid first sentence on a blog. I couldn’t help but steal from Genesis just out of sheer irony. By the way, if you think I am referencing Peter Gabriel, you have stumbled on to the wrong blog and must excuse yourself immediately.
“The beginning” can describe the start of many things: my life, life itself, pre-life, even inanimate objects: from countries to houses to businesses, they all have a beginning. It seems the beauty that is the English language is marred by its ultimate downfall, that such words can describe so much and in turn means so little. I will now explain the short journey of this piece of text, and try to be precise and honest about it. Before I do, however, I have to make light of the fact that I write with an anarchistic urgency. Therefore if the destination is D, and A is the starting point, you best believe I will visit X & Y before I make the finishing line. As I do like to be corrected, please do so with no heavy conscience. I have read a few blogs recently by people who think just because they have opinions they are now writers, and take that opportunity to write down any piece of waste that infiltrates their mind. I have opinions because I am an evolved primate, but I write my opinions because I am a writer; joining the army doesn’t make you a hero, although your odds do increase heavily – owning a pen does not make you a writer. I pen everything from shopping lists to random thoughts to cleaning duties: I wrote my first utterly horrific book of poetry at age fifteen, I have written songs, written music, a novel split into two novellas (and to my limited knowledge I am the first man in history to do so, and take immense pride in the fact – although if I am wrong, break my heart, I would rather have it that way). I can admit that no college or university has sculpted my vernacular, which sets me back in both my input and what others think is my ‘intellectual worth’. My use of grammar and proper English is based on trial, error, & correction. But I insist my thoughts are as natural and home-grown as the moles that plague my skin. I believe if I could understand how to convey the language in the same way my mind could formulate it, I would sit side by side with the best – however arrogant that may sound.
For clarity it is necessary to say I fully understand to others I may be anything but, though to me, I am a writer and always have been. Not technically by profession, not by comity and not by accolades, but by my willingness to learn, my wanting to inform and my admiration for what I see as a noble talent. I recently read a blog about juice+, and with no intention to offend the author (if juice is what grinds your gears, write on) I found myself saying “If he finishes this piece with ‘the juice isn’t worth the…’ I will puke all over myself.” Well off course he did, and surprisingly I never. I know other writers who, like me, would have felt this way after the first sentence. Therefore I advise anyone who reads this, if I become that cliché and predictable give me 3 things: use of a bathroom, a razor blade, and a transcript of my piece, I will gladly do the rest.
The beginning I referred to is not any notion of life, as we all know from the religious right-wing in America, life begins at erection. No, this beginning was an itch that infuriated me enough to write this piece in the first place. I was in church, naturally – watching a man who calls himself a priest, “a father”, tell me that I am a fool not to believe (in an actual funeral he addressed non-believers). Just before I move on, I refuse to call anyone a father who hasn’t even dipped into the well of his own sexual appetite; fathers deserve their title, he does not. Then again would I have wanted this holy man to fulfil his sexual desires? There may have been a young boy in the audience that day, I didn’t notice, odds say the priest did. Well I was shocked to say the least. Not only because he thought it an apt time to speak on atheism – whilst looking at a crowd of mourners – but because if he knew his bible as much as I do, he would know that a fiery hell awaits us both. I – the non-believer – would end in hell due to my ever-loving sky daddy who asks me to love and fear him, but if I don’t will burn in hell (some deal) and he – the priest – for calling me a fool…
The priest in holy name church did not address this, he did not speak of how his church says that “Aids are (is) bad, but condoms are worse.” He did not explain the hypocrisy of the Pope sitting on a golden throne (google it) whilst children in Africa starve to death. Nor did he say why the bible references gays once or twice, yet implores to give to the poor over 300 times and to live a frugal life, and instead of doing this The Catholic Church sits on billions in art and gold, and for millennia has professed gays to be “one of the world’s biggest evils,” and “an intrinsic moral evil.”
Have they not read the bible?
I wish I could be more vitriolic about these humans, but for the sake of consistency, they are the fools. I can say that without reproach; I have no dogma that tells me otherwise. Jordan Smith is a novelist and sceptic from Liverpool, England. He attended a Roman Catholic School ran by nuns; a faith based education that he now uses against the religious. In recent years he has: written Novellas & blogs, ran an independent record label & written a score for a play. At age 9, when studying for Holy Communion he asked “How did God create light on day one, if he created stars (where light comes from) on day four?” He was told to stop asking questions … he never did.