I woke this morning and realized I had no creed. So I went down to a local bar for a plate of chilaquiles and a michelada. I took out some paper napkins and a pen and began to write my creed. A feeling of excitement came over me. This was similar to the gold plates of the Mormons, the Dead Sea parchments of the Jews, even the code of Hammurabi chiseled in the basalt stele of Babylon. In short, my simple act was historic.
Here is what I wrote:
Let me hold the woman and the child. Allow me that much. Watch as I extend my arms across the world and enfold them as they sleep. They turn to me in a shiver, as people twist with the cutting light through palm trees: the southern shepherds of my imagination. The shadows are upon the ground. The flutter of black bodies struggling through frond and wind, calling to me from somewhere I have been. Minutes are years for me and the mirrors of my eyes have absorbed it all and as long as I can breathe, as long as my mind is replete with movement, I will be able to sense the poetry of life, even in the darkest moments of the path.
When I stopped writing, I reread my words. Was this the heart of life for me? Could I use this as a guide to make my way through the world? My answer was yes, because these were not really words, but rather they were pinholes into the universe and through each little opening I could see infinities of light and the sweep of stars upon the far reaches of interstellar valleys.
I finished my beer and fried chips and made my way onto the sidewalk. I was a proselytizer as I brushed against the unbelievers. Armed with my creed, I began to absorb all around me and imprint new lines for the extension of my creed. I would add more napkins and more words later that night and soon I would have a walking bible to distribute through the grand halls of Amazon at $9.50 per copy.
All of this I say to you.