"There ain't no grave can hold my body down..."
Johnny's tired voice is accented heavily with dragging chains. He sounds hopeful, in spite of his exhaustion.
The Kia's headlights are surprisingly bright for such a toy car. Out here though, there isn't really any other light. Scattered trees throw huge, looming shadows on the ground behind.
Besides Johnny, there isn't really another sound other than the tires on the pavement.
Distance and time are hard to judge. How to measure, except in the lines of the song, when it's the near-exact tree and the almost-replica billboard, and so on?
The shadow and the lights, and the tires and Johnny combine to make an almost ethereal atmosphere.
"When I hear that trumpet sound, I'm gonna rise right out of the ground..."
Grotesques loom and flare in the passing light.
From the corner of your eye, it's almost believable that unimaginable horrors, possibilities and unknowns lurk just out of cognitive sight.
Miles melt away as the songs progress. Life, death, past, future, hope and sadness; Johnny sings about them all.
And somehow, just outside the uncracked windshield, the shadows try to say the same things.
21 July, 2010
13 July, 2010
From the vault...
From Jan. 31, 2006
I sit at my keyboard, thoughts slowly turning, not ever quite coalescing into definite shapes, ideas. A vague sort of feeling to describe an even more vague train of thought.
On my way to and from work this week I drove past a European automobile showcase floor, sandwiched between office buildings and the local chapter of some variety of guild. A few blocks later I passed derelict apartment buildings, uncared for since their haphazard construction.
A little earlier in the week I sat in the quiet, cool halls of the Federal Courthouse, sent there by work to get information on a case. The hush of the marble halls and the faux-marble pillars adorning the courtroom doors conveyed a silent message of some kind.
When I was at the library, a weather-beaten man, wrinkled but clean, looked up as I walked past. He nodded his head, but when I smiled at him, his face lit up, opened.
In class today I was told that the sun is going to burn out in 3 billion years. That "stars are made of other stars." Now, I wasn't left with a feeling of impending doom after such a dire prediction, but rather with a sense of wonder that it hadn't already burnt out. We exist in such a delicate balance. We lose touch, perhaps, with simpler things.
And then there are the people. The harried executive, immaculate in his suit but weighed down with a briefcase and a cell phone, the man sleeping on the cold wrought iron bench and the teenager happily snapping pictures with her acne-plagued boyfriend.
I walked along the side of the street, my heels clicking as I crossed. All the while the sun still warms the air, lighting the sky.
A symbol, a covenant that I- along with the European auto show floor, the tenants of the dilapidated apartment buildings, the message broadcast in a whisper from the courthouse, the weather-beaten men, the harried business executive and the young lovers- are treasured by the Lord and not forgotten.
On my way to and from work this week I drove past a European automobile showcase floor, sandwiched between office buildings and the local chapter of some variety of guild. A few blocks later I passed derelict apartment buildings, uncared for since their haphazard construction.
A little earlier in the week I sat in the quiet, cool halls of the Federal Courthouse, sent there by work to get information on a case. The hush of the marble halls and the faux-marble pillars adorning the courtroom doors conveyed a silent message of some kind.
When I was at the library, a weather-beaten man, wrinkled but clean, looked up as I walked past. He nodded his head, but when I smiled at him, his face lit up, opened.
In class today I was told that the sun is going to burn out in 3 billion years. That "stars are made of other stars." Now, I wasn't left with a feeling of impending doom after such a dire prediction, but rather with a sense of wonder that it hadn't already burnt out. We exist in such a delicate balance. We lose touch, perhaps, with simpler things.
And then there are the people. The harried executive, immaculate in his suit but weighed down with a briefcase and a cell phone, the man sleeping on the cold wrought iron bench and the teenager happily snapping pictures with her acne-plagued boyfriend.
I walked along the side of the street, my heels clicking as I crossed. All the while the sun still warms the air, lighting the sky.
A symbol, a covenant that I- along with the European auto show floor, the tenants of the dilapidated apartment buildings, the message broadcast in a whisper from the courthouse, the weather-beaten men, the harried business executive and the young lovers- are treasured by the Lord and not forgotten.
04 July, 2010
From A. Peterson....
It's enough to drive a man crazy; it'll break a man's faith
It's enough to make him wonder if he's ever been sane
When he's bleating for comfort from Thy staff and Thy rod
And the heaven's only answer is the silence of God
It'll shake a man's timbers when he loses his heart
When he has to remember what broke him apart
This yoke may be easy, but this burden is not
When the crying fields are frozen by the silence of God
And if a man has got to listen to the voices of the mob
Who are reeling in the throes of all the happiness they've got
When they tell you all their troubles have been nailed up to that cross
Then what about the times when even followers get lost?
'Cause we all get lost sometimes...
There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold
And He's kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone
All His friends are sleeping and He's weeping all alone
And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
In the holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God
-
Tonight, I've got no words of my own to add.
It's enough to make him wonder if he's ever been sane
When he's bleating for comfort from Thy staff and Thy rod
And the heaven's only answer is the silence of God
It'll shake a man's timbers when he loses his heart
When he has to remember what broke him apart
This yoke may be easy, but this burden is not
When the crying fields are frozen by the silence of God
And if a man has got to listen to the voices of the mob
Who are reeling in the throes of all the happiness they've got
When they tell you all their troubles have been nailed up to that cross
Then what about the times when even followers get lost?
'Cause we all get lost sometimes...
There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold
And He's kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone
All His friends are sleeping and He's weeping all alone
And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
In the holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God
-
Tonight, I've got no words of my own to add.
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