So lately, with all the natural disasters bombarding our planet, I've been doing some retrospective on my life in the potential wake of cosmic doom. It takes me back through a pool of memories. And I think to myself...when does one's life truly start? Not 'ohhh what am I doing with my life ughhhh' but when does someone's existence grow purpose?

We're animals in an ecosystem. We'll always have a purpose.

When did mine begin? When I began to realize my identity? I'm sure when Harriet Tubman decided to save millions, she knew who she was. Or maybe she was just so naturally pure she had no need to put together her identity. My first memory? I don’t know. Maybe crafting my identity cannot be truly articulated upon just yet. I'm naught but twenty-two, I still have like, fifteen phases left to go, especially the whole making babies thing.

Is it your first memory? Nah, it can't be. Well, when an animal is born, it knows right what to do. It's got some drive. Is that the pit that starts?

Although, my first memory is kinda cool. I remember sitting in my carriage, my grandpa holding me, in a hallowed, antique bank. We were in a large crowd of people, but there wasn’t too much commotion. There were some vividly bright chandeliers, I remember that. My carriage was navy, plastic, nothing really to write home about?

Well, there I was, infantile and right in the thrust of it. And in Brooklyn, too! That’s also the only memory I have of my grandfather. I never knew either of my grandfathers, you know. I wish I did. I’ve heard they were utterly delightful company. My name comes from my maternal grandfather, Peter Siano; I was the only of his grandchildren (after six others) to be named after him! How about that? So that's a start, seeing as my very name - graciously provided after popping out into the ether a full two weeks early - gave me some symbolic meaning, despite my infantile status.

Maybe I’ll go bigger in introductions? Yeah! Okay. So, did the universe begin out of nothing, or was the nothing all there is? I read in The Black Arts by Richard Cavendish that the universe is an organic life form, trying to constantly evolve with us in it. I very much recommend that piece of literature. Anyway, my thoughts are that-

Eh, too contemplative. You can see here that I’m very picky. I better script out soon to be important moments in my life, or I’m gonna be begging to restart them simply because I didn’t have a dramatically proper statement at hand.

I’ll definitely talk about Brooklyn, no doubt! Frankie’s always fond of saying that the world of Brooklyn shaped our mindset, our creative sensibilities, and many other things. I agree with him. For one, our neighborhood was very multicultural: Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, African-American, Russian, Italian, Jewish, you name it! Boy, do I thank the gods for that. I never knew any boundary, any xenophobic tendencies, and that undoubtedly shaped who I am today. Walking around the block every day to find a new culture, which as a child felt like the world was within a mile.

Yes please! Not everyone has that, so that's a couple of Peter-specific factors, no?

On that note, we were on a street by the bay, which, not by choice, forced me to look out to the horizon every day I walked out my door.

No wonder I'm so goddamn restless! All I knew as a child was the promise of the infinite!

I always liked anybody. I don't remember being too much of a shit when I was little. Is that because being born with no leg counterbalanced any crippling negative emotions? Sort of like a celestial trade off?

Look, this may be futile. If the world keeps spinning, and I go back against it, I will surely be overcome by the unstoppable inertia guiding the biospheres.

And that would be horrible.

I can look forward, though? Cause then I won't be pushed against. In fact, then the universe will push me on. And that would be awesome! Alright, I'll look forward.

Join me next week for some of that, I guess!