Sometimes your world is spiritual.  It responds back this way.  And your memories hold the data of this response when you go looking for it.  It’s not all the time.  It can’t be all the time.  Maybe because our minds can’t handle it—seeing the world this way, in and out of time, the people we know in it responding to you, haunting dreams that don’t acknowledge what they knew, what you knew when you allowed this other world to open up and have a reality—the time of days and nights no longer safe and comfortable with the normal facts that reassure you there are no questions you’ve left unasked, afraid of the answers—the deeper meanings that seem to disappear when your world becomes normal again, the people you know in it simple again.  But you have the memory of it happening, and that’s why these memories are no good, because if you’re remembering correctly you must be crazy—you were crazy when it happened if the world you’re used to is to exist and be the real world…  David Threnody was having a hard time.  A hard time getting over it—what he saw and felt during the war.  He was still having a hard time getting over Rosie, and what happened in Mississippi when he was nineteen.  He was twenty-seven now.  Eight years had passed and much in it in between, but a part of him was still there, in Mississippi, in that time of no time, remembering that ride he took.  A ride that would bring him close to his wife, for when he met Bethany they would have that in common.  They would both know what it meant taking that ride, and because of it they would understand each other.  It would become the basis for why they fall in love.

And maybe I must transpose into my time to give it an analogy.  For the first time, the first time I heard those first recordings of David Threnody on KDHX community radio, waiting for a train at a crossroads in the American Bottom, it was twenty years after his death.  It was after 9/11 and the dystopian imaginations we have now of a government, the government of a technological age where everything, everything you do can be watched.  Your whole life under surveillance.  Your data trails, the fingerprints you leave behind on the internet with all the gadgets part of your life now—how the cell phone you can’t live without has GPS marking your every whereabouts, how the microphone in it can be turned on recording your conversations, and even the windows around you can be measured for its sonic vibrations identifying your voice, your unique voice patterns, how your status updates on Facebook and Myspace, your text messages, every debit card swipe, the black cameras in ATMs and on every street corner—all this tech grandeur—now merely a computer algorithm that profiles your every move, an eHarmony match on your personality and a behavioral prediction on all the probable choices you will make.   And you are controlled.  You are under control.  Corporate media dictating your news feeds.  Subliminal commands repeated over and over in Super Bowl commercials telling you what to buy, what to buy so you don’t have to be afraid.  The music on your radios, your internet and satellite radios, a program of likes and dislikes that all seems fine because you’re hearing what you want to hear.

This is an analogy I can create in my time of what maybe David Threnody felt in his time, in his taking that ride in Mississippi in 1937.  An analogy that you are being watched, your motivations controlled, but instead of science, instead of technological innovations, instead of a physical governing body taking an interest in you—now transpose it into the spiritual.  A spiritual world watching you, giving you those gentle nudges.  The people you know and love, all the people around you also being watched, being given those gentle nudges, and instead of a computer crunching the numbers, the statistical options of the relations and interactions, spiritual forces are controlling you, inside your head, knowing your every move before you do.  Because they make the recipe, adding a little of this, taking away a little of that—pushing the buttons that direct your so-called free will in a world with natural laws as its parameters, surely, but once in a while your mind is freed—you see the codes creating your world, terabytes of streaming data, and by seeing it you bend the rules and the world you see responds, the people in your world respond.  Time stands still—real time and not virtual time.  Everything then becoming significant.  Every choice you make being watched and guided.  And your mind—your everyday working mind—can’t handle it.  It can’t be freed this way realizing how this freedom really is, and if you have any memories of this, a moment of realization such as this, where like in my time you become aware of a government watching you, and transpose it to a spiritual world, a world where even the dictates of time don’t exist, a world without even the limitations (for there still are limitations) of a government armed with everything we can imagine in science fiction—you can see how you would go crazy.  How if you truly tried to live in this world you would be locked up.  But we’ve all lived it.  We’ve all imagined it.  We all have a memory of it.  A memory containing the vast world of a single choice—the choice of whether to believe in it or not.  This is the memory David Threnody had—what he wanted to forget.  A memory of a ride where he met a woman, and I must recreate in the only way I know how, transposing it into my time and creating an analogy that perhaps better understands it.  What I heard.  What I heard in those first recordings of him…

           

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