Everybody Wants To Go To Heaven, But Nobody Wants To Die By David Crowder, Excerpt

Everybody Wants to go to Heaven, But Nobody Wants to Die by David Crowder & Mike Hogan In this unique and engaging book, Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven, but Nobody Wants to Die, musicians David Crowder and Mike Hogan remind readers that a life lived to the fullest inevitably includes pain and grief. Even more, that kind of life requires dying to self—which then frees us to experience a greater joy: living as part of a community of faith. About the Author:

David Crowder is the pastor of music and arts at University Baptist Church (UBC) in Waco, Texas, where he lives with his wife, Toni. He is also a part of the rock-and-roll extravaganza known as David Crowder Band (sixstepsrecords/EMI CMG). Mike Hogan plays in the David Crowder Band and, although Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven, but Nobody Wants to Die is his first venture into the world of books, he has done a good bit of music writing for various magazines.

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ZONDERVAN Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven, but Nobody Wants to Die Copyright © 2009 by David Crowder Previously published by Relevant Books, 2006 Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Crowder, David. Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die / David Crowder and Mike Hogan. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-310-29191-6 (hardcover, printed) 1. Grief — Religious aspects — Christianity. 2. Death — Religious aspects — Christianity. 3. Soul — Christianity — History of doctrines. 4. Bluegrass music. I. Hogan, Mike, 1971 – II. Title. BV4905.3.C78 2009 248.4 — dc22 2009029009 All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New American Standard Bible. Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Published in association with Yates & Yates, www.yates2.com. Cover design: Jeff Miller, The DesignWorks Group Cover photos: © Shutterstock Interior design: Matthew Van Zomeren Printed in the United States of America 09  10  11  12  13  14  15  •  22  21  20  19  18  17  16  15  14  13  12  11  10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

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Contents An Introduction Prologue The End . . .

11 18 22

History of the Soul, Part 1 Philosophical Journey to the Center of the Soul IM Conversation 1 History of Bluegrass, Part 1 An Introduction to Bluegrass IM Conversation 1.1 Columns, Part 1

23 24 28 32 33 37 39

History of the Soul, Part 2 The Continued Philosophical Journey to the Center of the Soul IM Conversation 2 History of Bluegrass, Part 2 Migrations and the Beauty of Sheep Columns, Part 2

46 47 52 65 66 70

History of the Soul, Part 3 Science, Religion, and the Question of the Soul IM Conversation 3 History of Bluegrass ,Part 3 Coming to America Columns, Part 3 The Art of Condolence

76 77 86 94 95 99 104

History of the Soul, Part 4 Science, Religion, and the Continuing Question of the Soul IM Conversation 4 History of Bluegrass, Part 4

106 107

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113 126

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Definitions and Transitions Columns, Part 4

127 130

History of the Soul, Part 5 Science, Religion, and the Still Continuing Question of the Soul Raul’s Emails History of Bluegrass, Part 5 The Difference Between a Violin and a Fiddle Columns Part 5

138 139

History of the Soul, Part 6 Our God-Fearing Souls IM Conversation 5 History of Bluegrass, Part 6 The Early Life of the Bluegrass Pooh-Bah Decibel Points of Reference Interlude Columns, Part 6

168 169 180 190 191 197 198 200

History of the Soul, Part 7 The Mourning After IM Conversation 6 History of Bluegrass, Part 7 Bill Monroe, in Conclusion Columns, Part 7 The Green Pastures

208 209 216 230 231 239 244

The Beginning . . . Appendix A: A Playlist Appendix B: An Evolution of Form Appendix C: Heaven Acknowledgments

245 249 250 253 271

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147 150 151 160

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An IntroduCtIon or Hello, My Name Is

Bb

Hi. My name is David. What you are reading is the introductory section of the book where we, the authors, are allowed the opportunity to declare what exactly this book pertains to, and to ask certain things of you, the reader. You know, suggest items you might keep in mind while reading, a simple space where we might become more acquainted. The journey on which we are about to embark requires companions. It would be much too sinister to go this alone and, as a matter of fact, this simple sentiment just so happens to be one of the few items we are hoping to force into your chest with our small collection of words — we need companionship — the company of friends. Due to the limitations inherent in books, you lack the opportunity, by way of formal introduction, to present yourself to us. But we will disregard this glaring flaw in our introductory process here and proceed by making a number of assumptions about you, given that you either bought or borrowed this book or, in the least, have had the incredible good fortune of currently holding it. (If, perhaps, this book came to you by means dubious and debatable, we, the authors, would prefer not knowing about it. However, if that is the case, which by the way we are making no assumptions or judgments about, we applaud your disregard for social norms and admit that while we do not condone ignorance of 11

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . the law, we admire your free spirit.) Your simple act of reading leads us to believe a number of things: 1. You are both intelligent and good-looking, with a high aptitude for mathematics and cartography, are exceptionally well rounded, and possess great athletic ability and a keen sense of style. (We based this first assumption solely upon the fact that this guy named Steve told us he was sure to buy this book upon its release; so if your name is not Steve, please proceed to number two.) Or 2. You are like me and my coauthor, both introverted and reclusive; consider the reading of books the sum total of your obligatory societal interaction; are plagued by significant personal space issues and forced all too frequently to deal with them; have absolutely no retentive capacity for numbers, figures, and their various summations, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions; are incessantly nervous yet unable to declare exactly why; enjoy comic books and microwaved marshmallows; and, of course, eat only with a spoon, as pointy objects make you anxious. All this we can assume by the simple fact that you are reading this sentence now. And thus we shall freely extend our hand of companionship to you. Yet you know nothing of us, outside of what you know of yourself, for we are like you. But it’s been said that the self is the most difficult to truly know, so we will present ourselves in hopes that you may recognize a portion of yourself and, upon doing so, lightly take our hands into yours for the journey to begin. But enough! It is time for us, the authors of this book, to formally say hello. My name is David. I am a musician in a band that just so happens to bear my name and that also happens to count my coauthor, Mike Hogan, as one of its contributors. Of course, you could have perused the back of the book for a nice little spiel indicating as much, but there you would not have found the following anecdote: We had at one time in our possession a foolproof band name formula. It involved a number, a mammal, and a color, not necessarily in that order. But, alas, our current name found us before we could employ our profound formula. 12

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an introduction The honest truth of the matter is that none of us in the band can really pinpoint how or when our current name came to be. We did, however, have the cunning cleverness of choosing not to use a definite article in it. That’s largely due to our wanting to make a statement. We wished for a name that really said something. To discard the definite article is a bold, daring move, one that should not be underestimated. So take note of your authors, me and Mr. Hogan, henceforth known as merely Hogan, for both our musicality and our bravery — qualities fit for making two fantastic travel companions. n ow, because there are multiple authors, we realize there is great potential for confusion to arise. For instance, one may be reading a passage and wondering all the while, Who exactly is responsible, Crowder or Hogan? Such irritation could easily make the prospects of finishing this book exceedingly dim. We would solve the problem by having the foresight to create a bit of space here in the introduction for you to get to know us a little. We would give you insight into our respected characters and personalities. Thus, when you are reading a particular passage, you will have a clearer suspicion of the one responsible. I am sad. Therefore anytime you read something sad, you should attribute it to me. Hogan is also sad but less sad, so anything less saddening is mostly his fault. I have the propensity for inflationary commentary and overexaggeration, so anytime you read something that is too definitively vast or impractically impossible to take in, such as the inestimable depth of sadness in both of the authors, attribute that to me. Hogan has a tendency toward irony and understatement, so when you read something like “David is sad,” it is most definitely Hogan who wrote it. I enjoy tea. So does Hogan. So that will be confusing if you encounter something similar to: I found myself squinting, while holding a now cold cup of tea that was still shaking in its saucer, outside a rather smallish cafe, and I was attempting a determination as to whether the sun’s yellow was welcoming or taunting me. Yellow was too happy a color for today.

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . Something as large as the sun should not be so happy. n ot today. And it was spreading its yellow everywhere. And the tea should have still been hot, and there should have been more of it. The cup was easily half empty. Yes, the sun was most definitely taunting.

It would be almost impossible to tell whether Hogan or I had written this except by noting one particular sentence toward the very end pertaining to the cup being half empty. Most definitely written by Hogan. (However, this was written by me, as an example.) But, you see, he is a pessimist. He often sees things from a “half empty” perspective. Anytime you read something from this jaded, cynical vantage point, it is Hogan. I, on the other hand, find that the cup is merely too small. It is not the liquid that should be called into question, but the container. It is the whole that is flawed and in need of disposal. The cup should, as a result, be shattered to bits there on the yellow concrete.1 Then there is the detail that Hogan is our violinist, DJ, and resident musicologist. His retention of band names and their respective album releases and the historical impact and implications of such entities on the general public is nothing short of fantastic. His brain works in an archival way of sorts, with the filing and retrieval of these mostly useless2 bits of information transpiring in such a flurry as to produce an almost audible low humming noise if he leans over and allows you to press your ear against the crown of his head. Therefore, when you find reference to a particular genre of music and the history contained therein, you should initially consider Hogan to be responsible. Unless it is tragically sad. Then it could be either of us. It hasn’t always been like this. Granted, we can’t exactly remember not feeling the weight of this sadness, but I insist there once was a time that we did not. And not to say that there aren’t now instances of terrific joy would be one more example 1

At this moment please make reference to the few sentences appearing earlier in the introduction suggesting one of the authors holds unhealthy inclinations to ward over-exaggeration and boasts a pr edisposition to ward drama. The annotated sentence should therefore be reread in light of that. 2 Useless, unless of course you find yourself writing a book pertaining, in some loose sense, to a specific genre of music.

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an introduction of unnecessary drama. But there is most definitely a weight — the suffering weight of a collective grief, perhaps. One might suggest this book is the plain fault of our heads’ and hearts’ locale over a number of years past. People in the proximity of our affections keep dying. For a while, cancer was the antagonist. We found ourselves in the cyclical ebb and flow of onsets and remissions, the real-life drama of ignited hopes and crushing disappointments, and then eventually we would reach the seemingly inevitable moment of final transpirations. There would be the same conversations over and over. Condolences. Commiseration. Hugs and handshakes. Looks of concern and care. Sympathy. We were getting good at these. We could perfectly intonate names in a way that brought calm and assurance while reading them out loud from little white florist cards attached to flowers in the viewing rooms. “Oh. The Smiths. That is so kind of them. _______ just loved them.” I began to realize that the flowers were there to distract. At first I fell for it. They stole my eyes from the open casket where my friend or family member lay; their blatant greens and reds and yellows and whites gave me something to look at and talk about while my insides strengthened. Then all the rooms started smelling the same. Consequently, it then seemed to me that the flowers were exerting great effort toward filling the room with something living but failing miserably at it. It’s frightening when you can feel flowers trying too hard. They were no longer pulling life from the ground and sky, but stuck in a dimly lit room dying next to the dead. And this was supposed to make me feel better. But cancer had a pace that we had adjusted to. It gave you time to brace for the smell of flowers. Time to get yourself composed and ready. Then a new antagonist entered our story. Electricity. On October 30, 2005, Kyle Lake, my close friend and pastor of the church I helped start and am still a part of, was electrocuted and died while baptizing a friend of ours during the Sunday morning ser vice. Things inside us began to spill over, and we started collecting them in this book. We have chosen bluegrass music as a means to discuss death and the soul, our grief and mourning, and the resulting hope that was born out of it. Hogan once told me, on a particularly tragic day, that he had a very 15

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . sinking feeling that there just wasn’t much of anything to live for here on earth. That even the good stuff was so fleeting, so very easily stripped from you, that he felt existence created suffering too great for one planet to contain. He was simply being honest and vulnerable in a rather dark moment. But I suggested that maybe it’s not that there is not enough here to live for, just that here is not enough. Maybe it’s the container that’s flawed. The thing about grief is that it makes it terribly difficult to see further than the feelings that are in your chest. It tints your world. Everything you see is colored and blurred from your heart’s sinking. You say things you wish you could take back. He tried to tell me later that he didn’t know what he was saying. That he was just spewing words because he was sad and didn’t have any that were lighter than those that landed on me. I’m sure there are more words like the ones that fell from his chest here in these pages, but maybe this book can be your bluegrass. Bluegrass music holds both suffering and hope. Both are inherent and necessary. And so we begin with a premise: the “high lonesome sound” of bluegrass music is born from pain, yet despite such roots, flowers into hope. We are not scientists; therefore, we are not scientific in the formation or conception of this premise or in its proof. But we will tell the story of bluegrass, and of ourselves. And you can hear that it is truth. That it is, in fact, pain that birthed this high lonesome sound. In the living of life here on earth, there is most assuredly present a large amount of joy, but there is also a given amount of pain. Bluegrass is a shaking, shimmering echo of this — our reality. Have you ever sat quietly in a dark room with only the green glow of stereo lights cracking the black while Ralph Stanley’s voice pours lonely from speakers, moving the molecules of air toward you?3 You can feel your heart start to fold in on itself as your eardrums unsettle from black stillness into melancholic motion by the changing air pressure, their 3

Odds are you have not. I mean, for one, who does that? And second, there is a good chance you may hav e even found y ourself muttering the wor ds “ Who is Ralph S tanley?” while reading that sentence. Personally, I first came upon Ralph’s name, not through his music, but through a tatter ed sticker affixed to a beat-up guitar case. I t suggested the following in bright, bold yellow lettering against a firm black background: “Ralph Stanley for President.” I am now of the opinion that this is not too terrible of an idea.

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an introduction beating shooting tiny packets of electric pulses through the interior of your sorrowful skull. Apparently neural impulses travel anywhere from two miles per hour to two hundred miles per hour. Pain impulses travel at the slowest of these speeds. Scientists say that the sensation of touch travels faster. They say if you stub your toe, you feel the pressure of the object almost immediately, but the pain doesn’t hit until two or three seconds later. But my perception is that emotional pain moves at light speed. Here, watch. Think of the person closest to you, the one you find it most difficult to picture existence without. Then imagine them gone. Gone as in no longer living and breathing the same air as you. Feel that? Heartbreak is immediate. At electric speed your world is dissolved. But if scientists are correct — if touch travels faster than pain — then maybe we need those around us to pull in close, to beat pain to the punch with touch, to brace us before we shatter. Listen to Ralph’s voice one night in the dark. You will feel the weight of mortal humanity in it. There is pain in that voice, and it moves fast. Have you heard the banjo of Earl Scruggs? It will quickly break your heart. I promise. Both are voices from a tradition that suffered communally. This book is a meditation on grief and the soul. It is a book about the pain of absence. It is about the sharpness of memory that eventually dulls into something we both fear and pray for. It is a book about dying. The kind of dying that involves the physical body that every one of us will one day experience, but also the kind of dying that is necessary, before that moment of mortal death, for true living to begin. Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die. And heaven, if we’re to believe what was proposed by a man two thousand years ago, is a kingdom coming and a kingdom here and now; something for the present not reserved entirely for the ever after. Right now we exist somewhere between here and there, and bluegrass carries the high lonesome sound of our in-between condition in the rise and fall of its lyrics and its melody lines that reach and plummet like the slopes of the Appalachians. n one of us are getting out of here alive, but death is not the ultimate calamity. True life is life together, despite the pain. Touch travels faster than pain. Death does not win. It is the beginning.

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Prologue Bb

There are some deaths which, upon occurrence, arrest the considerations of the public at large. There is something — be it the public visibility of the individual or the curiously unusual or wholly universal circumstances surrounding the death — that coerces our attention and empathy. For me, the first recognition of this phenomenon was while sitting at the bar with my wife at the Red Lobster in Waco, Texas. We were waiting on a table. It was September 1, 1997. The televisions scattered around us announced that an English princess had died. Our collective grief ignited; a planet wept. I cried right along. Sitting there with cheese sticks and a Dr Pepper, I cried for a princess I didn’t even know. The New York Times reported that the posture of the massive crowds of mourners appeared to hold “something more Latin than British . . . the intensity of people’s words and actions; a largely Protestant culture that epitomizes restraint and values privacy was galvanized by a need to display its powerful emotions publicly.” 1 As a funeral procession advanced through the corridor of overt grief that lined Kensington High Street winding toward Westminster Abbey, we joined through television sets and radio broadcasts. Physical distance 1

New York Times (September 7, 1997, intl. ed.): 1.

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prologue was overcome by empathetic proximity, or the transferable nearness of emotional presence. Death united us, pulled us together. In excess of a million bouquets, garlands, sprays of flowers, cards, and signs bearing our sentiments rested in front of royal palaces. Questions came from the mourners: How could someone attempting such good die so dreadfully? Did it have to come so unforeseen and immediate? Was this real? Was she really gone? How can she be gone?2 Within minutes of four pistol shots being fired outside a n ew York City apartment located at the corner of Seventy-Second Street and Central Park West, crowds gathered to mourn the death of John Lennon. There was Columbine. There was Oklahoma City. There was September 11th. Before these, two wars involving no less than the entire planet; at least, that’s what their titles indicate. More crowds. More collective tears. You know how sometimes in the middle of the summer — when rain has been scarce and the sun has been hot and the ground is dry and cracked — a storm hits? The water comes in torrents, sounding its arrival with claps of thunder and cracks in the sky. It’s all too much for the soil to hold, and then suddenly, violently there is a flood. Grief arrives with this force. It is itself a force, unstoppable, and no one is safe from it. Once upon a time, we almost drowned from the grief of God.3 If the earth were a cup, it would seem too utterly small to contain our collected grief; the gathered tears will spill over. In his book Buried Communities, Kurt Fosso writes, The loss of a family member or close friend can easily spark a desire for the social possibilities afforded by sharing one’s grief with others, particularly when that grief is felt to be burdensome or even unbearable. It seems clear from these social manifestations that for such grief to be shared there must be something common to those who gather together, whether what is imparted is grief for the deceased or the unique problems of grief itself. One widower or widow or friend or neighbor seeks out another for comfort and for the particular kind of social cohesion offered by mutual mourning . . . that sense of shared, personal loss.4 2 3 4

Kurt Fosso, Buried Communities: Wordsworth and the Bonds of M ourning (Albany: S tate University of n ew York Press, 2004), ix. Genesis 6:6 – 7. Fosso, Buried Communities, x.

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . Commonality is significant to our belonging; to share similar characteristics or homogenous qualities with those around us brings a profound sense of comfort. In a moment of public tragedy, it seems it is enough just to be human; that our condition here, situated on planet Earth, with flesh and bone and blood and breath, is a struggle common enough to include us all. A death that captures public attention and holds a story line compelling or intimate enough to provoke public mourning brings with it cohesion, a declaration that we are not alone in our human experience. If only in the sense that we all have the capacity to bear loss, that we all have the capacity for human attachment, that we can be bound with things invisible to the point that a severing of this invisible bond rips at our collective heart. It is as if we look around and ask, “Do you feel that? Can you feel these various things coming apart in your chest?” Due to its bizarre circumstances, the death of Kyle Lake and his subsequent burial on All Saints’ Day quickly became national news. It was extraordinarily odd to view his name running along the bottom of Headline News with the word electrocuted following close behind it. Kyle was not a visible public figure. He was simply the humble pastor of a small church in a fairly small Texas college town. He was the author of two modest-selling books.5 He was a thirty-three-year-old husband and father of three children — one five-year-old daughter and two three-yearold twin boys with the blondest hair you’ve ever seen. Only the freakish oddity of the way he died could attract mass media attention. For a pastor to die of electrocution while standing in the Christian symbol of new life was nothing short of paradox. And it was a public death in the most real sense, one transpiring in full view of a wife and congregation who loved him entirely. I’m certain these are the reasons it was picked up by the Associated Press and Cnn and why, a few weeks later, my cab driver in Washington, D.C., asked about it when I mentioned I was from Waco.

5

Kyle Lake, Understanding God’s Will: How to Hack the Equation Without Formulas (Orlando: Relevant, 2004) released October 31, 2004, the day after the day he would die a y ear later. And (re)Understanding Prayer: A Fresh Approach to Conversation with God (Orlando: Relevant, October 11, 2005).

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prologue I, however, chose to believe that the world knew what had been collectively lost that morning, and that’s what the fuss was all about. When a person plays a role of such mass and significance in one’s life, one assumes that the whole of creation feels the moment of his exit too, that the severing is as severe and deeply felt. I thought for sure you were sitting in a Red Lobster somewhere crying with me.

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theBend .. b ....

it was the best day yet. a few solitary clouds hung in the sky, left over from the hurricane that had passed through orlando just days before, but the sun was winning and it felt good on my skin. the air seemed happy. the space around the clouds was full of the deepest blue, and where the blue met the ground, the grass was ideal. i could feel the blades folding under my shoes, giving in to my weight and giving off the distinct smell of crushed green as i walked toward the pyramid of range balls. the molecules around me were inventive and resourceful. the most minuscule hairs on my skin were acute and ready. i could feel everything. my friends shane, jack, and jason were with me. our movements were animation. an artist of immense capabilities had made this day. my heart hovered in ascendance. it was rising in my chest. i pulled out my nine iron and scooted a ball along the grass toward me. i watched as jason swung and his ball flew against the blue that was in between the clouds and the sun and me. “this is going to be great,” i said. and i meant it. completely. great is a ridiculous word, but it was all i had. i knew that today would be an exceptionally brilliant day. then my phone rang . . .

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History of the

soul

Pa r t 1 Part

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Philosophical Journey to the Center of the Soul or The Weight Is a Gift Part 1

Bb

The opening lines of a rather large, intimidating volume called Flesh in the Age of Reason, by one Roy Porter, read as follows: Who are we? Our contemporary Western secular sense of identity stems directly from transformations occurring in the centuries since the Renaissance. These developments are often characterized as the “death of the soul”; but inseparable from such a process, and no less salient, has been the reappraisal of the body. The two have been symbiotic in the refiguring of the self.1

If you are able to sift through the quote without the use of a dictionary and a college professor, you’ll be able to get the gist of what this mammoth book is all about, namely the “death of the soul,” the rise in importance of the physical body, and how those two things influence the ever-evolving pastime of self-discovery. Or more simply, “Who are we?” Seeing as how Porter passed on before the book was published, we can only hope that he found what he was looking for. But that question — Who are we? — holds a lot of weight. Sometimes the answer is simple. If you ask a group of thirteen-year-old girls dressed 1

Roy Porter, Flesh in the Age of Reason: How the Enlightenment Transformed the Way We See Our Bodies and Souls (London: Penguin, 2004), 3.

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history of the soul, part 1 in matching cheerleader uniforms who they are, they will most likely give you the answer you would expect, though with a little more spunk and eye rolling than necessary. But if you were to ask the same question to a university philosophy student, the answer would become more complex.2 All in all, it’s an awkward topic. Perhaps it’s because most of us don’t spend much time contemplating the soul. And why would we? We already have more distraction in our lives than we can shake a stick at (which would only serve to add yet another diversion, that of stick shaking). What Porter’s opening does, however, is beg the question: is the soul really dead? And it’s not just Porter who has made note of this. It is by no means a new sentiment. But if it is true, if we live in a society that has lost its belief in the human soul, it changes everything, both for the living and the dying. So, in an attempt to sort this one out, let’s look at a brief history of the soul. To avoid this becoming too academic (as if that were even a remote possibility given the nonacademic proclivities of your two esteemed authors!) or dry, try thinking of what follows as an adventure movie through history or one of those Magic School Bus programs that the kindergarten kiddos seem to enjoy, only with the ghost of Roy Porter peering over our shoulders. So here goes . . .

THE MAGIC SCHOOL BUS AND THE JOURNEY THROUGH THE HISTORY OF THE HUMAN SOUL! THE BEGINNING: Primitive humans are thought to have a tribal mentality, making authentic individuality impossible. This is because every aspect of life is seen through the eyes of the community. Magic and the supernatural apparently played a big part.3

2 3

Yet equally annoying. Hogan’s wife, who once was a teacher in the public school system, informs us that the Magic School Bus books are, in fact, popular among the kids but difficult to read in a group setting. There are apparently small bits of information scatter ed throughout, making the pages dense and complex. The same may be said here.

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . .

THE GOLDEN AGE OF GREECE: Individual consciousness emerges. Ideals of goodness and truth abound in the teachings of Socrates and other philosophers of the day. Although it sounds good at first, people start to get their feathers all ruffled because this does not coexist well with their traditional communalistic thoughts. The advanced and progressive Athenian government, which was no small influence on our great nation, executes Socrates by forcing him to drink the poison hemlock.4 In the art world, Sophocles, Euripides, and other guys with last names ending in “es” wrote long dramas where everybody dies in the end, usually because the main character had the gall to step out and do something on his own rather than listen to the gods. These are called tragedies, not only because every character meets with dismal doom but also because every high school student in America is forced to read them and to learn applicable vocabulary such as hubris.5

THE AGE OF FAITH: Christianity begins its spread across the world. On the one hand, this is a huge advancement for the soul. Life after death? Sounds good. However, apparently the early Catholic Church wasn’t so keen on this whole self-exploration thing for the sake of self-exploration.6 The way they saw it: original sin occurred because of an individual desire of forbidden knowledge. It didn’t help that the medieval period was in full swing,7 and along with it, the whole caste system of master and servant, lord and serf, blah, blah, blah. The upside of this time period? Sweet architecture and stories 4

Interesting to note, hemlock comes fr om a plant called Cicuta virosa, a per ennial with little white flowers that cluster in the shape of an umbrella. Inside the stalk and roots of the flower is a y ellow resin from which the poison is made that is said to smell of parsnips, carr ots, or mice. The poison affects the central nervous system and causes abdominal pain and v omiting. We would wager that sucking on a mouse would inflict similar symptoms. (Our editor has informed us that, according to the online Encyclopedia Britannica, “Socrates was killed by hemlock from Conium maculatum, a biennial. The poison is concentrated in the seeds, though the entire plant is dangerous to livestock when it’s fresh.” Your authors figure that whether the poison smells like a mouse or kills cattle, putting it in your mouth is a fairly bad idea.) 5 Zinger #1. Could it be the authors’ own hubris that subjects you to such jokes? Only the gods truly know! 6 Roy Porter, Flesh in the Age of Reason, 4. 7 We realize that we are moving forward rather quickly here, and therefore a lot of detailed history is falling thr ough the cracks. F or those of y ou who ar e interested, check out The Story of C ivilization by Will and Ariel D urant. It took them a lifetime to write, is o ver 10,000 pages long, and they died befor e finishing it. n o doubt that it co vers just about everything.

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history of the soul, part 1 of knights and chivalry. The downside? Modern-day humans will read The Da Vinci Code and traipse around European churches wearing fanny packs and ignoring the “n o Pictures, Please” signs.8

THE RENAISSANCE AND THE REFORMATION: At the same time Columbus was busy discovering the n ew World, the Renaissance was getting under way in Italy. “Man” (Porter makes a note here to confirm that man means literate, gifted, elite males, and I am not one to argue with him) begins to make great strides in self-discovery by deciding he has had it up to here with the Church, conformity, and the customs of his forefathers. In modern times, this would be the equivalent of your older sister going off to her first year of college and coming home over Christmas break for the first time with dyed hair, a nose ring, a book on Buddhism, and some newfound contempt for the way she was raised. During this time, humans put themselves on a pedestal as the pinnacle of creation and masters of the world. n ew forms of self-centered art like the self-portrait and the autobiography emerge.9 Meanwhile, Martin Luther was busy with the Reformation. Rather than killing the soul off, the reformers were busy adapting the soul for the newly shaped world of personal self-expression by suggesting that salvation came from a personal journey and faith. Cessation or adaptation. The soul was torn in two directions, which must have hurt.

8 9

Zinger #2. We are on a roll here! And bands named after their lead singers . . . zinger #3!

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Im ConverSAtIon 1 Bb

hey i’ve got an idea! :DAVID HOGAN: OK ok, so we have the soul stuff and the bluegrass stuff, right? :DAVID HOGAN: Yeah and we’ll have the columns :DAVID HOGAN: Yeah well we could include an instant message exchange :DAVID HOGAN: What do you mean? we could put stuff like this exchange in. you know just put this stuff before the columns :DAVID HOGAN: What stuff stuff we’ll write. :DAVID 28

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im, part 1 HOGAN: What would be the point? to discuss stuff. you know put some pieces together. :DAVID HOGAN: It doesn’t seem like including this exchange would be putting anything together yeah it would. we would have just told the reader that we’re including instant message exchanges. :DAVID HOGAN: The reader would know that already what? :DAVID HOGAN: If you’re reading an instant message, you don’t need to be told you’re reading an instant message exchange. yeah you do. :DAVID HOGAN: No you don’t. It’s like watching television and the television says, “you’re watching television.” no, it’s like watching television and it says, “you’re reading a book.” :DAVID HOGAN: What? and then we could explain that at times the real thoughts of you or me could break in. :DAVID HOGAN: What do you mean by real thoughts? you know, what we’re really thinking. :DAVID HOGAN: So far I have typed everything that I am really thinking. This is a ridiculous idea. But if I disagree he’ll probably just write the book by himself. 29

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . no. you know how there is always a given amount of posturing in any exchange of language :DAVID always trying to present your best self, even when you’re supposedly being vulnerable :DAVID being vulnerable just to look good. :DAVID HOGAN: No, I think it’s a great idea. but in instant messaging you don’t have as much time to put your best foot forward. you know you say things you regret. :DAVID HOGAN: Yeah, like earlier when I was acting like this might not be such a great idea. I think it’s a great idea. It’s really a pretty pathetically obvious literary device. So I guess “instant message” could be the new “letter of correspondence.” I’d like to know the number of books that have supposed “letters” in them. An author wants to write in first person, draw the reader in, so . . . here comes a letter. it would be sort of like using a letter. :DAVID HOGAN: I love it when there are letters in a book. A really clever literary device, the letter. yeah! yeah! I LOVE LETTERS!!! :DAVID HOGAN: Yeah, me too. but then you know if we let ourselves write what we’re really thinking in bold or something :DAVID you know and italicize it :DAVID or something so the reader knows it’s not part of the instant message exchange. :DAVID HOGAN: Yeah, that’s a really good idea. 30

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im, part 1 Nice suggestion. i’m really excited about this. :DAVID HOGAN: So should we say anything about the first chapters then? what do you mean? :DAVID HOGAN: Well you suggested that the exchange serve as a means to discuss the previous content? yeah, but i think if we explain that we’re doing this instant message thing we’ll have done enough. no need to be overly ambitious :DAVID HOGAN: Well I think we’re safe then what do you mean? :DAVID HOGAN: I don’t think we’ve been too ambitious here we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to :DAVID HOGAN: No. I think it’s a great idea Please tell me there’s not going to be a letter in here somewhere. ok :DAVID

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History of

bluegrass

Pa r t 1 Part

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An Introduction to Bluegrass or The Perils and tt trials rials of tt transatlantic ransatlantic Voyages

Bb

To arrive at the source of this music with any amount of precision, we must go through Scotland, where the seeds of bluegrass were sown. “Oh God, please help me! Someone help me!” He was turned sideways in his seat, eyes wide, nose crinkled up in a ball of wrinkles and nostrils, with a mouth performing the impossible feat of frowning, grinning, and gaping open in slack-jawed astonishment all at once. “Seriously, what is that? Can you smell this woman next to me?” The woman in question was a large, spherical lady of undetermined age and ethnicity that was wedged in the neighboring seat on an overcrowded plane flight over international waters. Their friend Jeremy’s voice was the one heard pleading through the din of boarding passengers in gag-whispered, scarcely discernible utterances for intervention. If invited to wager a guess, they would have put forward she was German. They have known a good number of Germans, all of whom seemed wellgroomed, free of offensive odors, and very good at math for some reason. Yet not only was the woman in question the antithesis of well-groomed, but there was serious doubt as to whether she could crunch differential equations or explain the complexities of “nozzles,” which one of Hogan’s old roommates (engineering major) happily did at all hours of the day. He might have been German. 33

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . The matter simplified itself a little when, shortly after the thickening ether around them had been duly noted, the round woman grunted, shifted subtly in her seat, and, as if by magic, pulled from thin air and opened a plastic container containing . . . brown. Who knows what this “food” stuff was? But the best description was: brown. The air blossomed with a whole new catalog of odors. At that exact moment it became clear that she was in no way German. n o, what they were dealing with was distinctly Eastern European. And the flight to London had barely even gotten under way. The aforementioned, while true, has absolutely no real bearing on the story. To be honest, it happened two years prior to this story’s beginning. But there are two reasons it is mentioned here. The first is that the woman portrayed above did indeed smell awful, and she did indeed indulge in an enigmatic cuisine off and on over the course of eight hours that made her row-mates long to swallow their own tongues. Such a woman deserves to be honored in print. The second reason is to illustrate the all-too-real perils of international travel that persist, even to this day. If you’re lucky, you’re the type of person who can step foot on a plane, fall asleep, and have no recollection of the suffering taking place around you. The authors, however, are not lucky, nor do we have the foresight or fortitude for prescription pills thrown back with mini adult beverages and are therefore forever doomed to suffer in uncomfortable seats, eyes peeled open, lower backs screeching in pain, and nostrils flaring. For us, a recent plane ride from Dallas to Great Britain seemed to take about twice as long as way too long. You can imagine our enthusiasm for a whirlwind three-day trip to Scotland, knowing the following was in store: Get on a plane. Get off a plane in a foreign land. Attempt to sleep a few hours. Play music. Attempt to sleep a few more hours. Get back on a plane. Get off a plane. Go home. n ow, don’t think there wasn’t excitement at having the opportunity to play a show in Scotland, because there was. Hogan had been to Scotland once before on a family vacation when he was about ten. His memories include a cluster of fluffy sheep, Jefferson Starship blaring from a pub’s jukebox, and very, very cold water in Loch n ess. He was therefore surprised to find that on our descent into Edinburgh, it looked nothing 34

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history of bluegrass, part 1 at all like a foreign land. In fact, it looked downright ordinary. It could have just as easily been n orth Carolina. n othing against n orth Carolina, mind you; it’s quite a lovely state, and they make a great peanut brittle. Or is that n orth Dakota? Or Kentucky? It’s Kentucky.1 Maybe if there had been tiny sheep dotting the landscape like cotton balls. Maybe if his in-flight iPod playlists had included Jefferson Starship. Maybe if n essy herself had met him on the tarmac with a bag of golf clubs in one flipper and haggis in the other, perhaps then Hogan would have recalled the childlike wonder of his ten-year-old self. As it was, Hogan and his bandmates hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and they appeared to have arrived in n orth Carolina. Things began to look up when their ride arrived. Enter Justin Dowd, a large, full-bodied Scotsman whose accent sounded remarkably like a mix between Mike Myers’ father in So I Married an Axe Murderer 2 and Groundskeeper Willy from The Simpsons.3 His job, at least at the moment, was to take the band and their gear to the hotel where they could slumber away their transatlantic hangover. He did his job capably, with enthusiasm and then some. Along the way he treated them to a discussion on the rising property values of the Scottish countryside, why small British cars are the way to go, and why most Scots have a vendetta against Mel Gibson.4 When you meet a guy like this, you can’t help but ask a batch of pointless questions, like, “What do you guys think of the Irish?” Frankly, it is difficult to say who asked him this or why, but it seemed important at the time. He delivered his retort straightaway with great passion: “Oh, we love the Irish. Celtic brothers, ya know!”

1

2 3 4

Kentucky also produces the fine beverage Ale-8-One, which tastes like an alternativ e version of ginger ale. The logo (ALE81) is simple and appealing and has appeared in grocery stores acr oss the B luegrass S tate as w ell as on a T-shirt worn b y the main character in Cameron Crowe’s film Elizabethtown, which is incidentally sort of about death. Weird how that all fits together, isn’t it? Oh wait, you don’t know yet. Sorry. Look at the size of that kid’s head . . . it’s like an orange on a toothpick!” Arrrgh, that’s ma retirement grease!” Here is his v ersion of the tale: “ A fe w y ears ago a monument of William Wallace was erected in the town, which just so happens to look exactly like M el Gibson! People come from all o ver the world to see one of our national tr easures, one of the gr eatest Scots in history, and what do they get? An Australian in a kilt! Bah!”

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . Errr, well, no. But the authors took his word for it. He was so passionate we had no choice. This is a Scottish quality. Even when you can’t make out a word, you find yourself nodding in agreement. For example: “Eh, would ya enjoy a bite o’ this baked sheep’s stomach filled with its own intestines and heart? It’s a delicacy!” Response: “Yeah, sure, sounds amazing! I have absolutely no idea what you just said!” Fork to mouth. The Scots and the Irish have a long and storied history. On many occasions the two have come together over a mutual loathing of the English and their monarchy. It’s a history that involves fighting, farming, dancing, oceanic travel, persecution, hardship, and the creation of what would become one of America’s most influential and unique art forms: bluegrass.5

5

If you were wondering when we would get into the whole bluegrass side of things, there it was. And who knew it could all be traced back to the Scots? (Answ er: Fairly obvious that we, the authors, did.)

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Im Conversation 1.1 Bb

HOGAN: So what should we say about the columns? what would you say? :DAVID HOGAN: I don’t know. no. this is great. i don’t think we need anything about the columns. :DAVID When I think about the columns I feel a weight. HOGAN: I hear music when I think about the columns really!? :DAVID HOGAN: I don’t know, it’s weird. Every time I think about the columns, I hear a cello. that’s really weird :DAVID HOGAN: I know.

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EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . . HOGAN: I wish we could write musical notes into the pages that would play what I’m hearing for the reader while they were reading it. maybe we could. it could be like watermarking. you know in the page, but not visible. i’ve already asked if we can get that special icelandic paper. :DAVID HOGAN: What did they say? they said it would be tough and would depend on the number of illustrations. for pricing and such :DAVID HOGAN: We need that Icelandic paper man! i know. you can feel the weeping under your fingers :DAVID HOGAN: Let’s use it only in the column sections yeah! hooray for icelandic paper! weeping and music while you read . . . :DAVID I hear cello too.

...

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Columns Part I

“I CAN’T FIND A PEN.”

“Why is she looking in the silverware drawer?” Sarah whispered this across the table to her friend Daniel, who was sitting with his arms folded. He was smiling. This was obviously funny to him.

ONCE, LONG AGO, there was a small boy named Steven. In those days, Steven was not such a common name. In fact, so far as forenames were concerned, he was the first. n o, up to this point there had never been another him; he was something the n ew World had never seen. n ow, there are lots of Stevens. You probably know one even.

columns, part 1

She said this while opening and closing the drawer beside the sink, the one that held the forks and knives and other shiny instruments.

HE OPENED HIS EYES. THE su n w a s b r i g ht t h rou g h the c urtains. T hey w eren’t curtains re ally. J ust l ong c lear pieces o f p lastic h anging f rom the n ails h e h ad h ammered i n a perfectly st raight l ine a bove t he 3 w indows o f t he b edroom. T he nails were s paced e xactly 3 inches apart. O ne w indow f aced e ast. Two w ere si de b y si de f acing t he south. T he e astern w indow was the largest: 7 f eet tall, 7 f eet wide. That m eant t here w ere e xactly 29 n ails a bove i t. T he s outhern windows w ere e ach 7 f eet t all.

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40 Daniel certainly thought it humorous that his grandmother was saying pen while referring to a fork. Finding it amusing helped. He could choose humor or sadness when the confusion came, but the two were getting harder to tell apart. “They’re in the dishwasher, Grandma.” “What?” “I said, ‘They’re in the dishwasher!’ We’re out of forks! You’ll have to get one out and wash it in the sink.” She scowled in their direction.

4 f eet w ide. T hat m eant 1 7 nails a bove e ach o f t hem. T he foot o f h is b ed w as c losest t o the e astern w indow. T he l ight coming t hrough i t w as j ust n ow touching t he t ops o f b oth o f h is feet, w hich m eant t he d ay c ould begin. T he r adiance o n h is f eet i s what w oke h im e ach m orning. When it was overcast, he would not wake. O nce i t r ained f or 14 d ays straight. That was the last time he could re member h is f eet h aving had t he t ime t o h eal. T hrough the p lastic h e c ould f eel t he h eat of t he l ight. S oothing w hat i t touched. T hat’s w hy t he c urtains were c lear. T o l et t he l ight i n. He t ook a d eep b reath. H e h eld it f or 4 s econds. H e r eached o ver and t ouched t he n ightstand 4 times. H e l oved t his p art o f t he

But this particular boy was the beginning. n o past. Only future. Steven’s favorite color was gray, but to be fair, it should be pointed out that it was the only color the little boy could see. It came, of course, in all shades, but it was still gray nonetheless — light gray skies with dark gray clouds and a lighter gray sun. If you were to ask him, “Steven, what is your favorite color?” he would most assuredly answer, “Gray. Gray is my favorite!” He knew no better. He had the bluest of eyes; he

EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . .

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“She means to say fork.”

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She could tell Daniel thought this was hilarious, despite his trying to hide it.

“You can’t be serious?” Sarah whispered. “Yeah. It’s weird. There’s a medical word for it, but I can’t remember it.”

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The word he could not locate was aphasia. “So, like, how many words are messed up?”

would, of course, describe them as light gray. People would tell him, “Little boy, there is no gray; there is only black and white.” “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he would quickly respond, for he knew — obviously — that the black necessitated the complete absence of light and the light — obviously — was everywhere . . . that is, if you looked hard enough. The little boy Steven had the same dream every night. He would fall asleep and dream he was awakened, right as the dawn was breaking. He would be falling through the light

columns, part 1

The stroke had rearranged her memory. The places she had formerly stored words and their respected meanings had been reordered in a way dissimilar to what had existed previously.

day. W hen h e w as aw ake. B ut h is feet w eren’t ye t o n t he g round. He s wung t hem o ver t o h is r ight until t hey w ere h anging off t he southern si de o f t he b ed. H e l et them f all s lowly t oward t he f loor. The bottoms of them came to rest against the fresh white towel he had spread o ut t he n ight b efore. A nd which w ould n ow b e s tained re d. His j aw m uscles t ightened. H e never g ot u sed t o t his m oment o f pain. D eciding t o p ut h is f eet o n the g round. T he t hought c rossed his m ind t hat i t h urt a s b ad now a s i t d id i n t he b eginning. He s miled. T he l ook o n h is f ace was t hat o f c omplete a nd u tter satisfaction. A t ear f ell d own h is left c heek. H e c lapped h is h ands 4 t imes a nd s tood u p. H e f elt h is perpendicular w eight s ettle i nto

42 “That’s just crazy!” “n o, it’s for real. It’s like a system of filing drawers or something. It’s as if you put a word away, stuck it in a drawer so you’d know right where it was when you needed it, but then, while you weren’t looking, someone came and moved the drawers around. They look like the same drawers, but the one that was on the top is now on the bottom. So if you wanted that particular item that you had stuck in the top drawer,

the towel as it soaked up the f luids that h ad g athered o vernight. H e looked at h is h ands. S till stinging from t he 4 q uick c laps. H e s hook them. H e p ulled op en t he t op drawer o f t he n ightstand. I t w as full o f t hin c ellophane p ackages of s tark w hite g loves. S tacked 7 d eep. I n 3 r ows. H e t ouched the t op o f e ach s tack 1 t ime. H e picked u p t he t op p lastic p ackage on t he r ight. H e b roke t he s eal. He p ulled t he w hite g loves o ut and l aid t hem d own si de b y si de on t he n ightstand. H e t enderly stepped o n t he si lver p edal o f the si lver c an t hat s at n ext t o t he nightstand a nd t ossed t he e mpty cellophane i n. H e w atched a s i t f loated d own t o re st o n t op o f the o thers. H e l oved t his s ound. Of c ellophane l anding. C rinkling

gray sky, through darker gray clouds, toward the even darker gray ground. He could see the light gray faces of thousands of people staring up at him. And as he fell farther and farther, as they screamed closer and closer, as soon as he could see into the deep blacks of their pupils, a thought would blister into his little boy mind: “They were wrong. There is no black and white . . . There is only black.” Then one night, immediately following this thought, there was a flash as the world burst alive into vivid color. For an instant his insides filled with dark reds. Brilliant oranges.

EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . .

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“I don’t know; it keeps changing. And there’s getting to be more and more. It’s hard to keep up.”

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“n o! n ot a bit. That is so weird!” Daniel watched as his grandmother leaned over the dishwasher; it was gaping open like a mouth in awe at her.

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She used to be brilliant. Taught advanced microeconomic theory in the city, a tenured professor at n YU’s Stern School of Business,

softly. The s ilver c an was g etting full. M ary w ould h ave t o e mpty it s oon. H e l et t he l id f all c losed. He s tared at t he t wo w hite g loves sitting o n t he n ightstand. H e reached d own. P icked u p t he o ne on t he r ight. H is j aw c lenched. Carefully h e s lid i t o n. H e t ook the o ther g love a nd s lid i t o n. He c lapped 4 t imes, then b egan to d isrobe. F olding h is p revious night’s c lothes. C reasing t hem neatly b efore placing t hem on top of t he l inen-less b ed. M ary, t he house’s k eeper, w ould l ater c ome take t hese i tems. T hey w ould b e washed a nd re ady a gain b y d ay’s end. H e w alked t o t he c loset wearing o nly w hite g loves. H e opened i t. T here w ere 4 h angers: On e ach h ung t he v estments o f his p rofession. I ntricate i n t heir

Glowing greens. Color. It was everywhere. But it was too late. He fractured there over the city, splitting apart, draping his gray over everything. Gray upon gray upon gray. The light went out as he thought to himself, “We shall finally perish here together in the black.” From that night on, every time he dreamt, he would get a glimpse of a world different than the one he took in during his waking hours. The limits of his waking senses were becoming a weight. Then one night, he fell into sleep and refused to wake up. And that’s how the rest of the

columns, part 1

you’d go right to the place you knew you’d put it and you’d open the drawer, but there’d be something else in it. You’re sure you’re at the right place, but you also suspect you’ve got the wrong thing. But you keep closing and opening that same drawer because that’s where it’s supposed to be. Make sense?”

44 “I’m going to university. You kids behave.” Her mouth sort of melted away on the left side. About a quarter of an inch before the upper lip met the bottom lip, it just fell limp at the corner — one corner animated, projecting a smile that you literally felt, the other corner dead, immobile. Sarah was staring at the deadened, half-frown section a bit too intently and became conscious of her rudeness just as Daniel’s grandmother’s mouth opened, and the pen/fork disappeared into it with some white food substance.

heaviness. U nderstatedly o rnate. n o s ubtlety i n w hat t he ro bes conveyed. H e b egan t he s low ritual of donning t he heavy c loth. We a re n ot a llowed t o d escribe the f ormal p rocedures h ere o nly to say t here is more to it t han just putting o n a r obe. I n e verything there i s m eaning. T hat i s w orth noting. H e w alked t o t he d oor. There w ere t wo j ars. O ne f ull of p ebbles. O ne f ull o f n ettles o f the c ommon c ocklebur v ariety. He t ook 4 p ebbles f rom t he j ar of p ebbles. A nd d ropped t hem into the shoe on t he right. He d id the s ame f or t he s hoe o n t he l eft. He s tepped i nto t hem. H e t ook 4 n ettles f rom t he n ettle j ar. A nd dropped t hem d own t he g love on h is r ight h and. H e f licked and jolted u ntil a ll 4 c ame to r est

world formally turned gray. But there were more Stevens coming, more who would dream the same dream. But as the world of gray aged, the dreams of the Stevens grew further and further apart. Until one day, they stopped. Then, on June 10, 1972, a little boy by the name of Steven was born in a tiny town, in the middle of the tall trees of eastern Texas. The first thing he did when he got there was cry. This would not have been a problem and seemed quite an un-extraordinary thing at the time — seeing as this is how we all come here — (which should maybe tell us something about

EVERYBODY WAn TS TO GO TO HEAVEn . . .

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was published, had retired only a few years ago.

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“She means bed.” “What?” “She said university, but she meant bed.”

against h is p alm i nside t he g love. He t hen d id t he s ame for t he left. He c lapped 4 t imes. A nd w alked out. Into the daylight.

what we’re in for), but when this particular Steven cried, birds fell from the sky. When little Steven’s cheeks were wet with tears, the ground echoed with the thuds of falling dead birds. columns, part 1

For each tear a bird.

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