Pool_2

>> NAACP <<

Standing on a river bank, one can just numb to the rhythm of water's flow. Flow, alone, can evoke so many feelings, can have so many meanings and possibilities. But place, place feels fixed. I am here. I am in this place. I stand here but I see flow. I feel flow. Time. Time is flow. Was I always here? Was I ever there, the other side of the river? Did I come from there? Ivrüm, ancient word from the other side of the river, then the Euphrates. Terah, Abraham, Sarah, and Lot, a small family that crossed the river. No matter where here is, for them destiny began there. Standing here, on this river bank, a simple farewell, Nino sends his regards, presaged blinding revelations to come later. Revelation is of whatever was. And if you don't know of what was? Pick up a shovel and start digging. History is a shovel. That's how it is done. Truth demands that dirt be moved. Digging begins at the, then, local NAACP. "Are you fucking crazy? You sons of bitches are killing us! Can't you count? One, two or three, maybe three, new bodies a day - Meat and I can feed em." Jazz Man was referring to the well upholstered Baptist minister who ran the mission and was called Reverend Meat by the locals. On the receiving end of this tirade was Josephiah Morgan, an immaculately dressed, in a three piece pin striped grey suit, Shakespearian voiced, statuesque black man with dignified grey hair. Jazz Man literally stomping as his neck bulged in rage, "You know what it takes to get volunteers for clothing and food, not to mention soap, toothpaste, and razors! You're God damn killing us! We're not a bottomless pit. Look at this sorry ass!" pulling a reluctant emaciated black man forward by the sleeve. "He has no skills! How do I get