The truth was a mirror in the hands of God

Don’t let the cross scare you off, I wear it when I am down in Tennessee; it just makes things easier. Plus, I’m kind of a believer anyway. After studying the religions, I either believe in nothing, or everything, or more precisely, my ability to take the good from what I see and leave the rest – just leave it behind – so that’s what I’ve done – or I tried to, if there ever was an I.

Still my heart rises beneath the physical beauty of the Cumberland Plateau, and the great icy blue skies where these crimes wait for me above Monteagle, like new hopes of new answers. At least for that one moment of clarity — yet any real truth, I know, will always buckle beneath the heavy loads of human folly, quickly quashed and self-beaten to dark shame, claims of justice made crazy as they always are in Tracy City. I consider this Islamic poem I know from Rumi to the people of the waste land. Where white-lives definitely don’t matter – the blacks left long ago — and no one’s left to care – or are too scared to say anything if they did.

The truth was a mirror in the hands of God,

It fell and broke into pieces,

Everyone picked up a piece and looked,

And thought they had the truth.

No more fitting could this be — and whatever happens, every mind, like a criminal, takes its part – of what it sees and fills in the rest with a cement of “truth” conjured from their portion of the clan, the creator of ego, strong or weak, the need to fit – the I — the leader, raider, victim or follower – black sheep – hero – I see it all from my part of the mirror. Like actors in a role. The great Charade. And that’s just the way it is – and I find that knowing that makes it a lot easier to deal with those unfamiliar to me.  Bible belt Christians, protectors of the Dixie Flag, If I am here to change a mind on one thing, I doubt I could do any more than that. And what do I know anyway as I would say “no lives matter.” As there never were any lives anyway. and be equally misunderstood as all those who were “innocent,” who just didn’t know how to act fashionably innocent at the exact right moment.

I figure this is going to be my last case, as these devices of mine, the film maker, are either going to be discovered, or become too sharp — and I am fearful they might start working on people that are truly guilty.

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