By DAVID BEILSTEIN
LUNDERVILLE CAME ACROSS the ether on Facebook, questioning why David was not using his real name. Given Lunderville’s invaluable friendship, Beilstein understood — as much as he could be expected to understand, not being Lunderville — the concern of Lunderville’s great mind.
What Lunderville did not understand, according to Beilstein, was David was his name — a long time ago, in Washington, DC., sprung from a Lutheran Social Services nest when the providence of God landed upon Beilstein’s external identity. His adopted parents changed that glorious name, to one more regional, — a name too close to another scribe for Beilstein’s comfort.
But Beilstein had reasons, strangely enough. He sought to be a lion in the field and David Beilstein was a name given to protect the privacies dear to the aspiring writer’s core. Some would understand, some would not.
Family and friends did not need to join the battles dear to the stout heart of Beilstein, proven against odds large enough to call miraculous. Beilstein would be the first to admit that by his mid-twenties he had not quite lived up to the legend maundering deep within his core, but he did his best and planned for the last decades of his life to be something to … write home about.
There was, likewise, the state of writing in Beilstein’s own day. It had become predictable, obscene, — wholly didactic. It needed a lift, maybe even a makeover. Beilstein had learned a long time ago, the author was entitled to his voice, his voice being illustration, his name being the instrument to bring that illustration to life.
Shortly thereafter, Beilstein sent a message to a friend in Texas. The same feelings swarming around Beilstein’s lush mind came to light and he figured his friend, too, would benefit from a name unlike his real Christian identity. Rosenbaum.
Ben Rosenbaum, to readers. The man had yet to prove whether he could make deadlines and write on turnaround. This might have been a large error in assumption by Beilstein, but he needed help and more diverse voices on Crede, ut Intelligas. No matter, thought Beilstein. Every fighter is given an ass kicking, every champion must reach. Rosenbaum would have to rise to the challenge or sink. Sink, meaning, be fired from a non-paying gig and waft in the wind somewhere south of Dallas. But Beilstein knew, somewhere, Rosenbaum was up to the challenge. His faith did not ebb, so he kept pressing. Kept stepping forward into the light of the opposing fighter, making him miss and lunge unsuccessfully. In order for Crede, ut Intelligas to stand out, it needed to walk a fine line of being indifferent to trends, and provocative.
If Crede wanted to be anything — it was provocative.
Too many blogs tried, many did not succeed. It was too early to say what would become of Crede, ut Intelligas, but Beilstein knew he was where he was because of family and friends — near, and far away. Now Beilstein demanded to be called David. It was best for all others, close and not so close. It was a link to the past and the gilded bridge to the future.
Other than a Holy God, Beilstein saw little else more important.