He dreamed it in his prime.  David dreamed his songs before he ever wrote them.  The words coming first, coming before the music…  And you can’t say he didn’t feel it.  I felt it for him.  Maybe something dying.  Something dying in that last chapter.  A seed.  The process fragmented digressions, but put together—days of a day…  David Threnody dreamed those first things, the beginnings, but he wasn’t very good at endings.  Not while he was feeling them.  But that’s how the songs came about.  And that’s what he was really waiting on when it came to sleep.  In its imitations of all our death.

… and maybe more than one story is being told.  When I think about that time.  The end of 1947—what happened in those winter months of 1948.  It’s more than one story on the one story we try to make it.  In one story everything that lives dies.  This story we would call our real life.  Everything dies in it.  The mother and father that brought you into the world.  The friends you make along the way.  Relationships.  Marriages.  All the critters we come in contact with.  In one story everything dies—even our children…  Everything that lives dies.  But I’m not sure if that story is told properly—this story of our real life—because that’s not the only story we tell.  Maybe because we know, on a gut level, it’s up to us how we tell the ending, and whether we omit another beginning.  I don’t know if there is a God, but in the story I make of it I’m not sure what I’ve created in my knowledge of being created.  For how can God create death without knowing of it, without also being death?  Maybe I created death.  In that story I’ve made of my real life, of this world, and everything that dies in it.  God gave me life and I created death.  That is the one power given me—that choice.  The choice to create death.  And it gives me the power to say God is dead…  But that’s just one story.  In a Christian story God did die and returned, to return to us again to our first choice—our first choice to know of our death, what the laws of our real life give us in our awareness…  This what I mourned.  This was my mourning as my firstborn lay sick and near death that winter of 1948.  I mourned my knowledge.  Not my knowledge of death, but of life.  And I knew that was how it was created—the songs.  The songs I dreamed.  Words before the music…  Life precipitates death, but the story that everything that lives dies our illusion, our human illusion, and we learn it—we learn it the hard way.  We learn it by choice, and maybe I just refused to believe that choice was made for me.  It’s how I took responsibility.  And I took responsibility.   It’s there–in my music.   I am responsible for why my firstborn child died…

            –David Threnody, on the eulogy of his child—from his journals 1966 to 1975