That was 1934.  And four years passed.  Girls were dated.  Girls that led to Rosie, and David’s time in Mississippi.  The reference he made to it.  The reference he made to it in his journals—the prophecy made over him—vague, dissimulating.  And in 1938 he joined the Army.  An army still segregated.  And maybe that’s why it’s vague.  His reference to it.  Maybe he was still trying to find his way.  His way out of finding himself coming back.  It comes after the performance—his first paid performance at that Soulard Mardi Gras celebration.  Marking his entry as a professional.  His beginning as a professional musician:

            I never did it for the money.  There was another question I had.  Another question I asked in my music.  And maybe she heard it.  Maybe that’s why I still remember what she said.  In the silence of that church…  You can’t hide from something smaller than you.  And see, that’s the thing about sex.  It’s either about power or love.  If it’s about power—a woman always wins.  If it’s about love, it’s usually the man.  And after Mississippi I knew.  I knew there was a king.  A king to this world.  A king you start out a slave to.  And you’re a slave in fear.  And over time that fear makes you become a servant.  You become servant to those forces, those forces inside you that reflect what you see in the outside world.  And this, this how you discern a bad person.  A bad person is a slave.  A slave that’s become a servant to what they were once afraid of.  In service to making others afraid of the same thing—in service to this world, and the ruler of it…  Everyone has a god.  Even those who are proponents of atheism.  For that too is a god.  A faith without faith.  For we all worship something.  And it is the heart.  The heart in contrition.  That pleases your god…  So after Mississippi, after remembering what she said—I asked the question.  What’s it going to be?  And I chose not to be a slave.  I chose instead to become an outlaw.  An outlaw to the lawlessness.  An outlaw to those slaves of what is godless.  To those slaves now servants to what they fear.  To those who give into being their own gods.  Those hapless servants to the forces that tyrannize this world.  Those fools thinking they’re not fools, for they have forgotten what contrition is…  This how I answered.  How answered in my music.  The music that I played, and what I would always play.  When I felt fear, and knew it, when I was forgiven.  I knew I was forgiven.  And so I knew her prophecy was true.  And I trusted it through all the lies.  The veil lifted over this world.  And the slaves now servants to it.  Their haughty confidence in its power a sham that brings me now only to laugh.  The life I chose, and the lives of others—your life and their life—marvelous to me now.  All part of something divine.  And I only feel pity.  I pity what I’ve come to know about bad people.  What I’ve come to know about bad people being good, and good people being bad.  How the lack of guilt—pride in making others afraid, losing trust through lies—makes us just naked.  Poseurs to false gods.  All of us wanting to be emperors, in new clothes…  The wisdom.  The supposed wisdom into how this world really works, and how to survive in it—just dirty rags.  And the servants to this, the open sores on their bodies, apparent to me now…  No, I never did it for the money.  I never did it for anything in this world—the true emptiness of it what it has to offer.  I did it for the next world.  What is always to come.  The slaves to what is now, merely followers to the next chapter.  Followers to the next chapter in the illusion.  This illusion of this world’s history and its future.  What you see in it now always what you lack, now…             

            –David Threnody, on the Civil Rights movement—from his journals 1966 to 1975

 

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