And when his father David gave him the guitar he said: In this I bequeath to you Time. So there’s a story to the story. Because it’s easy to imagine something that never ends, but you can’t help placing a before in the beginning. Victory over time is the illusion of fools the identity the peace the dependence not according to our purpose decay the triumph of our Nature and the Infinite forgotten in our grasp. So take it. Take it and play. And whatever it is–call it good… So that he (Benjy) sees it now. He sees it in a blind woman’s gaze. A crossroads. Highway 61 and 49. Mississippi. 1937. Eleven years before his birth. Before his hands found the wise tension of his brother’s umbilical cord. And the old woman says:

Do you smell it? Do you smell the trap? Where your father went is not just where he went electric. For that’s not the guitar the Devil tuned. It was acoustic. The guitar he brought with him to that place on a moonless night. You know which one I’m talking about. It wasn’t missin’ no string, but it had a bullet hole in it. It was the guitar you wanted at seven which he got at nine and you said I will not only to hide it later from a girl what was right there in front of you what you said you wanted… Yes the easy money the women the fame what the fire burns quickly leaving the juice inside. The blood… Ever wonder how the blood clots? That’s one of God’s mysteries so simple to life yet so complex how the intellect takes it and makes it hard to say hard to understand what the artist makes simple again. Your father was (is) an artist. But he failed you. He failed to bequeath to you Time. The story in the story. He didn’t tell you to forget. The fall of a man and his redemption his restoration. The madness in love. The reason in madness. For what’s done in six days can’t be done in seven. And there ain’t no short cut to talent. That’s a gift. A gift not taken lightly…

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