David is walking downLindell Boulevard.  He’s been walking a long time, and for a moment you picture him getting of a bus at the station downtown.  He stops in front of the Cathedral Basilica.  He puts his guitar case down.  The one holding the electric Gibson he stole fromMississippi.  He opens it for people passing by to throw money in.  His other guitar—Jonathon Bonnor’s guitar—is around his back.  He slides the strap around and begins a tune.  A mother with her child walks by.  The young girl points to the bullet hole, as the mother holds her hand and pulls her along to keep walking.  There are tears in David’s eyes as he plays a slow, sad tune.


I guess sometimes the mirror lies to you, or you lie to it in what you see back.  A memory of beauty.  Youth.  A warm and true smile reflected in the eyes…  But then maybe someone captures a picture—a picture of you in different light and shade.  Maybe from an angle above you or below.  And you look different.  Not at all what you see in the mirror.  The memory of yourself in the past.  And sometimes you see death—a ghost.  Pale, gaunt skin, blood-shot eyes, your hair looking dirty.  Almost like a smell.  A smell is captured in the picture.  And instead of seeing yourself and loving yourself you see filth…  Because sometimes your deeds are captured.  Your works.  Your dead faith reflected in what your memory can’t see in mirrors…  It’s as with all bad habits.  Their origins—how they start.  It’s just funny that something that at first tastes bad, smells bad—you acquire a taste for, you revel in the smell.  And how does this happen?  For instance why do I need my cigars now?  Even though to someone who’s never tried them they taste bad, smell bad.  But I know something comes after.  After that first taste.  That first smell.  And what comes after is somehow worth it.  Worth these first bad things.  Just as the beer and vodka I drink…  But a child knows.  As a child we knew.  Something that hurts at first.  Something that makes us feel bad—we avoid.  Somehow as adults we lose this common sense. Maybe because we know what comes after the pain makes the pain worth it—it takes away its pain and all other pains too.  And so we escape into something bad in order to feel good, for a while, until we remember again.  When the drug wears off.  Leaving us at first never wanting it again, but then doing it again to forget this.  We must forget why we do something bad by doing something bad again.  This the funny tragedy.  How we come to know this.  How we come to know that the bad things we do absolve us from how we came to know…  This the tower we create to live in.  To pay the rent.  This our tower of song…