Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup
They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe…

                                                                        –John Lennon

She found her first lover when she was thirteen.  And it wasn’t a man.  Her first love wasn’t a man.  It was a plant—a plant that grew wild like a weed in her father’s pastures.  Marijuana.  And maybe this is tied, inextricably tied—to the music.  To her love of the Blues.

It was 1936.  Hitler was coming to power in Germany.  David Threnody was learning about friendships out on the golf course—eighteen and about to take that trip to Mississippi.  He was about to take that ride at the crossroads.  About to go electric.  This connected.  Connected to the woman, the young girl, who would become his wife.  Her meditations in smoke, and how she liked to listen to the kind of music David liked to play.

Music is a language.  A language of numbers—revealing God and our failures in trying to gain this knowledge.  And so the patterns emerge.  For if God is love, and love is patient—you must wait.  You must wait until the end of the song to know what is spoken.  In numbers patterned by time.  Felt in rhythms.  Key notes to a determined beat.  A universal scale limited, but unlimited in what that makes you feel—when you hear it.  The lyrics, the words, not what you hear first—these words just chained to a pattern, freed as they are played along with the notes that accent them.  Showing you what’s down under, what’s down under them.  And to Bethany, the music became an obsession.  She heard in it what she wanted to say.  She saw in the numbers, unemotional, the expressions capable of all emotions.  Dark emotions, like anger, pride, hate.  Light emotions like laughter.  Sad emotions—some strings played stirring in her tears.  And love—the love of first loves.  Kind time—answering to your patience that what unfolds, what unfolds in a song, can answer all your fears on being alone and misunderstood.  A song quells arguments.  It brings lovers together, and enemies can hear in it all the justice they feel they deserve.  A song soothes a troubled spirit.  And the words, the words that are sung—become poetry.  Metered remembrances that enable you to listen without thinking.  You don’t think when you hear a song, when you let it in.  You feel.  This why it’s the language of God.  Our only way to talk to what we can’t conceive, what we even doubt exists, but a song—a good song—gives you faith.  It puts you in touch with all the things it becomes so easy to become out of touch with when you’re in pain.  Music heals the sickness.  That sickness of loneliness—the lie of it.  For you can’t prove what you feel.  You can only feel it.  And if you’re patient, all that you really want is given to you.  For all songs are spiritual.  Their truth is spiritual.  They are the bread and water that keeps you alive in the prison of your mind.  That strange paradox of how a mind creates music, how it hears it being created.  Because every song can be deconstructed, broken down to its parts, its instruments, its voice, and you can become obsessed and driven crazy by the numbers, the mathematics that are a song’s foundation.  But if you hear it, if you truly listen—you don’t need this.  You don’t need this knowledge.  You just need let go, let yourself dance, let your mind dance.  And if you do—you find it.  You find your first love–your beginning.  And that’s why I need to speak of it.  What happens when the music’s over.  I need to tell you about Bethany Labeau’s first love, and the music she found as an expression of it…