At one point the little clown craved the authority and continuity of church, its shadows, sounds and scents. Where people came to sit quiet, admit they felt lost, wait for answers. Where the voices of men and women and children rose in song together, with their echoes tried to fill the silence overhead. Where messages for today were selected and explained out of the big old book of contradictions, picking through its anger and vengeance to unearth its blinding lights. Where the little clown felt guilty because he did some of his best thinking in the quiet between priest and ceiling fan droning on in their forgotten tongues, that let him think things on the wing, or nod off at least and find rest.
Posted on: Fri, 05 Jul 2013 23:21:04 +0000