The Province of the Brave

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I used to think you could answer all the questions in the world with one word.

What is this CD? she asked.  The Idolatry Collection, I responded chuckling.  That was about what the whole 6months was like.  For the record, Idolatry is definitely not the word I was referring to, now or then.  Strike one.

What is it that’s all you need again?

Then there was the time we were sitting in the room plastered with show posters and the four-poster loft scribbled with notes and names and I had written something about being a very interesting fellow.  We were talking about how we wouldn’t know it if it hit us.  We woudn’t know what it looked like, sounded like, smelled like, tasted like.  I’m sure I played with my hair or some piece of jewelery I was wearing, and I probably asked what music was playing.  Strike two.

And promises made of smoke sung like shanks in a cake with the shiny blades of pagan angels in our father’s sky.  One more machine marked our ever waning patience at the world.

And the last one.  Which could have been the first one.  Which could have been a lot of things but never was anything and felt as much like a surreal Dr. Seuss book as this sounds.  One fish, two fish, red fish, (blue?) fish.  You fish.  I fish.  Caught a catfish, a fighter, and we threw him back (or vice-versa, I’m still not sure).  Hard to eat – to swallow – I guess they said.  Strike three.

I remember being a kid when he gave me advice freely, and though most of it had to do with corn and conspiracies, I think he may have been on to something when he said there are a lot of fish in the sea.

You just need that one in a million.  He said it as the light bent on the waves, pulsating to the beat.  I was tingling and terrified.  What scares me, I said, is immediate;  It’s standing 8inches in front of you.  And that pile of luggage back there.  Welcome to the human race, he smiled. You can learn to do almost anything on your own, but not this. Which means I’m going to be a disaster at it, right?  Great – failure.  Something I’m really excellent at (accepting?).  Here we go?

The question now is if it’s not a grave and it won’t decay on you, why is there a river streaming down your face?   (the answer is still not idolatry).

yours.Rachel

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