Friday, December 25, 2009


It occurs to me I’ve never been in a church on Xmas before. It’s cold. There’s singing. There’s singing like we know something others don’t. Like it’s dark and our singing will illuminate, like illumination will come from music. Like our voices together will make music like the voice of God. Like his music will be the sound of our souls. Like our souls will be heard by the others in dark. Like we will hear those souls laugh. Like there’s a woman in front of me waiting and looking back at the entrance like she expects somebody. Like she is waiting. She has a baby carriage. Like the wait is for her man, her husband, her father. Like she is waiting for something that will never come, in the house of god, in a broke down church in full renovation mode, on xmas eve. Like our Lord and his father. Like Atheism. She’s a looker. And when she looks back and saddens with some penultimate finality, when a woman with a red fur coat and two little dogs clamors in instead of the one she’s waiting for, she more or less breaks beautifully. I can see her lips loosely sticking to the words. I can tell everyone in here is waiting for someone who has yet to arrive.

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