The worst thing I could do would be to lie to you, to myself, about where this all began. I could spin a yarn about my conversion, but that would be either an exercise in historical ressentiment or a tepid cataloging of events and complaints. Yet, should I deign to speak of a “reflective-narrative assessment,” or some such thing, I no longer fall under the yoke of burdensome historicity; and at the same time, I do not ask myself to retroactively justify having made any one decision in particular. With the sort of assessment I have in mind, the expression of my journey towards Roman Catholicism becomes a playful and indulgent exercise somewhere halfway between vanity and facticity. In fact, I would rather not mention a singular journey, but the fractal and unstable bricolage comprising multiple journeys or pathways: fundamentally inconsistent, unreliable, and beautiful.