So what did he (Benjy) see? Not behind closed doors not in a room with a bed but in May just before a darkening rain when the sun hides behind the clouds the earth green with more splendor than silver or gold more than all precious jewels like looking at a flower opening for water those dewdrops on petals praising the sky and how one day one man can be complete a microcosm of the whole world in this the synaesthesia what he (Benjy) sees standing in Marie Toussaint’s door in the midst of a swamp the pigeons come home to roost and all the other birds of their kind singing it’s created for you your freedom like the smell of lilac on spring fields last bloomed what man cannot return to in all eternity Benjy crying, “Youth!” to the encroaching starry moonlit firmament and the graying leaves not with the autumnal fading dance in a cool breeze how the wind carries all of it so light and ephemeral unburdened by the mist of our colored choices its wise lamentation to the relations of power the reciprocal movement of celestial bodies and you look with the cosmological eye into the imponderable of all things the immutable silence of the mountain the song of the river and Benjy (not David) takes up a guitar by the water of a picnic the guitar his father gave him at seven the one to which he said, “I will not!” for he wanted what his father was given at nine to play to pluck the strings of what the heart doth say–to play to a girl–and all he is saying all he sees smells tastes hears feels the ce’st moi in the face of a woman a face like his mother’s who said, “It was Jesus…” that same year he was seven the same year he said, “I will not!” to his father’s gift a face looking on with what is written silently in her heart for in the beginning was the Word… and she (the girl) says to it, “a storm’s a coming…” and she smells like trees rain and like seeing all the kingdoms of the world for a moment in time here comes the sun to which she says out loud, to you, the word become flesh, “I am warmed by it…”

… you see I tried to play. But I couldn’t. Not like my father. And I could not repent from the pride of my ambition for ambition is never contrite but like Christ in concrete and you say in your heart of hearts, “Here is a man!” so instead of kissing her I tried to play to hide what I did not know to begin with what she in her infinite wisdom knew instinctively the voice of that wise spirit the voice my father heard which says, “for it has all been delivered unto me and I give it to whom I will and if you worship me it will all be yours…” The distinction the profundity between what is written and what is said… for the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it…

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