And so maybe we should talk about mothers.  And churches.  You see them as you pass by.  The churches that is.  Buildings with empty parking lots through the week.  No lights on.  Nobody home.  Except maybe a secretary.  A deacon.  An assistant pastor delegated that role.  Seems like the waste of a building.  On land.  Land that maybe once had trees and all the critters that live there.  An animal nature.  Sublimated to a building with stained glass.  To ghosts of control….  And have you seen those pictures?  Maybe in a book donated to an elementary school.  On YouTube.  Maybe you saw it.  A snake swallowing an egg.  Death in bones.  This was the land.  Before donations bring bulldozers.  The tithes to a more civilized world…  A building was erected.  Stone by stone.  Brick by brick.  Carpentry of the very trees that once stood there.  And hymns are sung.  Sung up to the sky.  To that blazing ball there.  To that midnight orb.  Sometimes a match for the birds, the frogs, and the crickets.  Sometimes not.  One a subjective morality.  The other not.  That rat being constricted in the coils of a snake does not pity itself as it suffocates.  It doesn’t feel alone.  Misunderstood.  A victim.  It is relegated by other laws.  Laws we have cast aside for our dogmas.  Our own consciousness of fate…  David and Bethany weren’t married in a church.  Nor on the land that once was that now you remember in shadows.  What you remember when you’re not absorbed in your own silly little world.  When you know your words come back to you in what you want to see anyway.  In that mad anthropology that give us our totems and taboos.  The primitive in our grand illusion being dumbed down by technology, commercialized into a name branded in us by those that want the power to brand.  That age old story of who controls the heat.  The flame…  David knew Bethany as his wife, but now he needed to know her as a mother.  He had to answer to what he saw pass by.  He had to answer to the church and to the earth.  His children depended on it, and he knew this without sonograms.  Without seeing what was in his wife’s belly.  What was healing there…  And so maybe I should tell you about the time she was sick—Bethany.  This midterm—the late summer after a long, hot summer, and the Indian David brought to heal her.  A man who lived near the old fort there in the river bottom.  That same river bottom, the Mississippi valley—the American Bottom—where I first heard David Threnody’s recordings, waiting on a train.  A man that knew about wasted buildings, and the earth.  And that strange habit of his, of all Indians really, to look down after making eye contact.  This maybe so because to him it was like taking a picture.  And it was out of reverence.  Reverence for some of your soul being captured…

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