Okay, let me talk to you about Sundays. I play my iTunes with REM telling me about compasses, and I’ve explained to Barbara that I don’t think beers should be considered in terms of “units.” Rather, like the Hebrew word for water… maim … “beer” should not have a singular form, only a plural, when it is in noun form. Peter Buck, I have a feeling, would understand.
Stand in the place where you work.
Now face west. ..
Stand in the place where you are.
But Sundays are full of Nothing, happening all around you. In Ohio, where I have the honour of being a fourth generation resident, going back all down to the Potato Famine and (not sure how that fit in) the necessity for Dutch River Pirates to inhabit the shores of the Ohio River (that’s Mom’s family — she never told me much about the ancestors — I had to rely on stories from my cousins) — In Ohio, you can’t drink till it’s one o’clock in the afternoon, on Sundays.
So you have time to go to church, etc.
Why do they think they can tell me how I may or may not reach God?
white pebble 