So that’s when Bethany went to her—the mid-wife present at her birth—for advice.  And maybe now is not the right time to say it, but I’ll say it anyway.  For in Bethany’s seeking for answers in the woman that birthed her, answers to questions on love, she was seeking answers to the dream born when she was born.  Because when we are born we are all born into a dream.  And in taking that ride with Denny she was awakened.  Something in her now asked the question.  A question for which she already knew the answer, but she couldn’t answer until she asked it.  The question forming the answer in the question of it.  What we all ask when our reality takes on the form of a dream, a dream that awakens us to asking the dream if it is a dream.

Her mother’s revelations on the past—her past with Cecily Bloodwood and how this affected her relationship with Cecily’s son, and her father’s talk with her over feeding the pigs on the Bloodwood past, this five years ago now, her grandmother’s involvement with Sissy and Wishbone Walker—this all made her present choices heightened by some dark, secret memory.  Her choice to take that ride with Denny and the deception that entailed in her promised engagement to Pete Southhouse, a man fighting the Axis powers in Europe, what he was witnessing that she could only dream about, sheltered in a small Cajun town of the American South—all this—it made that choice seem more than it was even though that’s all it was, and it seemed like she was paying for something she didn’t ask to purchase.  She was learning the responsibilities an adult takes on, a woman’s burden, on mistakes she didn’t make, but precursors to all the mistakes she would make—a foreknowledge that made hindsight all the more painful and confusing.  And she knew.  She knew that all her little choices—right or wrong—were part of something much bigger.  That she was an investor of it.  All the dividends that would come back, compounded with interest.

Bethany Labeau was just a black creole girl living as a remnant in a much larger dream than the dream she questioned waking up from it—the American dream.  And whether she knew it or not (and maybe now she did) she’d been paying into it since the day she was born.  She was paying into it not with money, but a currency much more valuable.  She was paying with her will, her free will, that investment, that debt we all pay in our birth marking our death.  She was paying with desire.  Suffering as we all do, as we wallow in the piss puddle of greed left by the crooks that know our dream and rob us of it—they too merely mechanisms in the illusions they create.  The illusion that good things have ugliness in them.  The illusion that bad things for us still have their allurement.  That illusion—that American dream—named in the will to power.  And not power over ourselves and the desires that chain us, but the power to create these chains, and enslave other people.  In the make believe that we will have love if we have this power—in the spirit we call capitalism.  Profit the only essential.  That game we play in all fun setting the price much higher so that we bargain, haggle and deal and bluff, for the price we were aiming at in the first place, thinking we got a good deal while the person on the other side of the table walks away with our souls.  And the pomp and circumstance of our elitism, our hunger for members only clubs, merely the deductibles garnered as insurance that we keep paying our premiums, our payments into the dream.  While the bastards only get richer and the poor are violent with themselves in their rage over the injustice.   And we can’t stop.  We can’t stop the machinery, this universal wheel—the desire.  Because if everybody wakes up they’re gonna want their money back…  This is what Bethany Labeau was learning.  She learned it in her ride with a drug dealer, in the man that made love to her, and the deceptions she allowed for this to happen.  Something she would have in common with David Threnody when they would meet and sing a few songs together.  Something that happens to all of us.  It happens to all of us when we ask that question of the dream.  The question of our desire.  It happens to all of us when we ask to be loved, and we’re afraid of the answer…

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