Take me to the river, Detroit
Sometimes, when you find yourself trapped in the throbbing, pulsating midst and mist of it all, assaulted by the squealing and screeching, the yelping and the hollering, and, yes, the sheer painful, embarrassing spectacle of it all, comes the calm whisper of the water.
Like a prayer.
And in those times, when the maniacal, demonic visions of madness simply will not depart, not even from the rattling cage of your dreams hidden behind the veil of tightly squeezed eyelids protecting eyeballs no longer able to process the unfiltered deluge of uninterrupted decay without promising blindness as a necessary escape and hope of bliss…
The river calls for peace.
Because through the water’s flesh flows the blood of memory’s beginnings. All endings have their beginnings, and beginnings eventually create their own endings. But whatever the nature of the beginning, however promising or horrifying, its ending is assured. And ultimately they will all be washed clean to pave the way for the next Armageddon. Because the End of Days is never truly the End of Days but the dawn.
And so as we are forced to witness the raw stench and sewage merrily feeding the obscene appetites of rage and destruction swirling restlessly around us all, threatening havoc and the absence of light, we should close our eyes and feel the coolness of water and have faith in its judgment. Because water orders our beginnings and sets the stage for our endings. Again. And again. And again. And in the middle? Repetition.
Detroit is the river and the river is Detroit. Same as it ever was.
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