And it is that question.  That question left unanswered.  That question that left unanswered leads to crucifixions—what is truth?  For it is where we stop.  Where we stop when we examine origins—that gives us our truth.  And am I wrong?  How do you know?  How do you know unless you go back further?  Further back in origins—in your search for the originating starting point?  That is how you know.  Your truth where you stop.  Where stop at where you believe it starts.  This relativity.  A relation to a motion.  And what finally is un-moving.  Your point of view defining whether it’s an end-point, or a starting point.  The radius of an arc.  Going round and round in an unending number.  And what is unending having no start—no origin.  Leaving you with the question.  The question that can’t be answered except in reference intervals.  All blame and all credit merely temporary names, labels to the motion, to the revolution.  Giving you your unstable perspective.  Your unstable resolve.  And so like many others before you there is nothing you can do.  You can do nothing—say nothing—that is true.  And you are left to wash your hands.  Wash your hands of it.  The one and only true sentence.

            And so we must go back.  We must go back in time to tell the story.  A different part of the story, a different facet of it—pieces of a puzzle that bring us closer to the truth.  The truth of what happened after maybe explaining why David joined the Army.  Because everything is not there all at once.  Sometimes you must go forward to find out what happened before, and vice versa.  And so we must flash back—to 1934—when David was sixteen years old.  To a prophecy.  A prophecy made over him by a woman.  A visiting evangelist to the church David’s mother took her children.  A Sunday evening service with only a few in attendance.

            And I had to dig to find this.  In his journals, David Threnody only makes reference to it once, mentioning a woman by the name Clarissa Smalls.  With a little library research I found her book, a memoir she wrote after the war, in 1948.  And it’s the following passages in it that gives us the story, another part of the story:

Nobody told me how.  But I could do it just as good.  I could do it just as good as any man.  Because you see I always had this resolve, this iron will—an energy people sensed.  What I guess attracted my body to the opposite sex.  For I felt their eyes on me.  Men’s eyes.  And the truth is I was repulsed by it.  At first I had no idea what this attraction was.  For I did nothing to support it.  I didn’t primp in front of mirrors like other girls, and my abrasiveness usually made other girls steer away from me.  Funny how that same abrasiveness attracted men.  Maybe because they saw in me what they wanted for themselves.  My confidence.  From a young age I never faltered.  I was never wishy-washy in my decisions, my intentions.  And I never second-guessed my judgments.  I never felt guilt…  Some would say I was harsh in my judgments, but I don’t think so.  With only my father raising me (my mother died in my childbirth) I learned to call things as I see it.  Without hesitation.  This maybe learned from my father.  How when I walked with him he would point to things, asking me what they were, and so I learned young to identify objects, quickly, without hesitation.  With intuition.  A light post, a crack in the sidewalk, scattered paper by a trashcan, a sign…  and I used this way of identifying objects on my walks with my father with people too, reading their eyes—a businessman, a whore, a drunken bum sleeping in a doorway…  And my father didn’t tell me how.  I just knew.  I knew how to intuit these things.  I could just look at someone and know what they were.  Never once doubting my impression, my judgments.  And this what gave me resolve, my will—what attracted men…  Then there was the sickness—what I learned from it.  When I was twenty-three I almost died.  An infection in my lungs.  Maybe brought about from smoking because I was a heavy smoker then, starting at thirteen, the same year I started my first job—working in a laundry, in the hot steam of iron presses, in the fumes of oxidizing bleach…  And there was a boy.  A boy who loved me then, and I thought I loved him.   At least I was curious about it.  This when I learned of sex.  The distaste I came to have for it.  For I didn’t like just lying there.   That boy on top of me—ardent.  It’s when I knew.  I knew I could do it just as good as any man could.  Maybe even better.  For in my sickness, that bed-ridden illness that almost killed me, and in making love to that boy, I saw that I was stronger.  The sickness didn’t scare me.  Being alone through it didn’t scare me.  And I gained strength in my resolve to be alone—I needed no one taking care of me.  And I didn’t have the nagging doubts that men do about what they could give, what they could offer.  And that’s when I decided they really didn’t have anything to give.  They had nothing to offer me that I wanted.  Except their buffoonery.  This how I knew.  How I knew I was called.  Called to the ministry.  A better preacher of sex and the ills of earthly love than any man could be, weakened by his natural temptations.  For I had none of these.  I had none of these temptations.  I was done with that.  The joy in my heart—my resolve—that it was better to be single, independent.  Giving my service to God instead.  And so I became a prophetess.  I read the fortunes in people’s eyes…

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