It would be tempting to define—using a metaphor—transcursion as the plastic cord, stretched taut over the finish-line, through which the winner runs. But the metaphor would at once prove both apt and inappropriate, for transcursion is precisely that human tendency from which the cord derives. Transcursion is that fundamental desire which renders a mere finish-line—painted on the ground—insufficient and dissatisfying. Transcursion is that oh-so-human need which erects barriers for the sake of surpassing them. More than serve a practical purpose re: the measurement of time or distance, the cord adheres to a firm, physical, and cathartic need to break through one’s shell. Transcursion is the reason why the storyteller cannot speak of a sailor traveling through the vast and empty sea, but only of one who conquers the world’s seven seas. Transcursion is the desire from which the birthday springs; it is the need to punctuate time into a clearly delineated order, as if this formless medium was a thin membrane that one could puncture—as if time, like a body of water, could be clearly demarcated.

Much of contemporary culture is founded upon this transcursion, as can be seen in the cyclicality of the school year, of seasonal vacations, of annual reports, of raises and promotions: the many goals towards which one strives, the breaks for which one waits. Transcursion is ubiquitous throughout today’s commercial art—in its many series: in literature, television, music and film. Indeed, the art is formed from this formulaic foundry; in its most popular and financially successful instances, commercial art manages to mimic the cyclicality of commerce. Harry Potter is destined to face Voldemort—and his exams—at the end of every school year; and on screen, each summer, new aliens arrive from outer space for our superheroes to combat. The art is merely another construction to be consumed, another self-created obstacle that the audience must hurdle.

This temporal cyclicality includes even those higher forms of culture: the annual awards season, monthly book clubs, daily papers, and even weekly Eucharistic visits (or shrink appointments). No element of human growth—whether it be material, intellectual or spiritual—is free from this all-pervasive mold. At the end of every calendar year, one must have a resolution.

Capitalist life has become like that of a hamster in a wheel; only, the wheel comprises the entirety of the cage: all of humanity is locked together in its swirling currents. (Note the absence of those other furry creatures, lemmings, which—in typical transcursive form—have that delightful cliff from which they may fall.) Seeing a carrot on a string, a few hamsters begin to turn the floor that binds us; soon all must sprint to stay upright, only to accelerate the spinning, only to further the incentive for others to join, or be crushed. “Oh, you haven’t read X? You haven’t seen Y? You haven’t heard Z’s new album?”

I fear that transcursion is a technique of the meek: that those not wanting to face the challenges that frighten them forge mockeries of their demons: the Xeroxed photocopy placed on the dartboard; the brainless, consuming zombies at which one shoots. Transcursion is a pretension of virtue; it is a justification for rash and meaningless behavior, and it is founded on the social acceptance of others. As a society, we guarantee that if others do as we, they are doing well. And so, the wheel keeps turning; nothing is learned, and, with everything forgotten, all is forgiven.

Transcursion pervades even into the most intelligent and academic circles. One finds it in the election cycles that persevere more to achieve oscillations between political parties, between two extremes that claim to have the same goal, than in the actual realization of that goal: the well-being of society and its inhabitants. One finds it in the intellectuals that need to distinguish themselves as enlightened and evolved: having realized and resolved the lacunae of their precursors. One finds it in the artists that would rather destroy the figures of the past than build their own. In each case, an enemy is constructed, and all effort is directed towards the euphoric climax: the moment when the enemy is underfoot.

To oppose this paradigm of progress, and risk being, myself, one of the many who claim to have surpassed the ignorance of others, I would propose the Medieval model, which remembers—amidst the whirling cycles of temporal confusion—that end to which all converges. Death remains the only certainty; one knows not what it will be; yet, still, one knows that it must be. Fatality is the sole transcursion. Our being and death’s must convene, and then we may feel, at last, the cord be broken. In aiming for this unknown and inevitable rest, the monk remembers that—despite the construction of these artificial endpoints—we are still running along the track. The race does not end with our accomplishments. As is always the case, the only finality is death.

There is no earthly completion; the most one can do is pass the torch to another, before one’s own spark is snuffed out. Thus, life, bringing art with it, regains its meaning. Bent by the weight of our will at the helm, the trajectories of wayward desires become elliptical. Still spiraling, still forgetful, one cannot be perfect; but, through these cycles, there remains accumulation. Without salient borders, this accrual—more than an enumeration of material goods: of medals won or dollars earned—is nondenominational: it can be known only by the name that we choose to give it.

How does one measure the worth of a painting? Does the value—like a price listed above, ratcheted up in decimal increments—increase with each stroke? Or is there a single moment, when the last drop soaks into the canvas, in which the work becomes art? Is life to be measured in its strokes? Or is it a career, a series of works to be completed? I imagine that the artist, looking at the canvas, can recall memories now distant—the tawny, interwoven patches in a young girl’s hair; the looming and blooming flowers on a hillside; the curve and cusp of a heifer’s rump—more than prizes won.

The sweetness of the harvest is in the honey. There is no joy to be found in the fruits of one’s labor, when they are kept within their jars. The pride of the task—having been completed, tallied, and left on the shelf—has no real taste. The beauty—if there is beauty—must be in the act: in the racer and her race, and never the place she takes.