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Takes a tourist to find a tourist site. Lofty glossy space with sunlight wafting, if on petrified-particular occasion; slanted light-beams, through the stain-glass windows, pervading the aire and atmosphere of God's exhalation. It was God's house. Where was God ? Did he live on the premises ? And then there were the bells. Always bells ringing. Such a quiet-thing still, that makes so much noise. You would think they would have a noise ordinance. My favorite Bong is the London Tower. That gong has such dissonance, that I have recently decided having heard it for an extended period on a great-Grenada Sherlock Holmes episode - so featured, that I decided I could live near it, for an extended-time, just to study that sonorousness.
Church inside. Where was the church ? Do we need a church? Is a church a rabbit hole that falling-in, we enter Wonderland ? My church was where we called up-town, on a bluff just above the high-way on Route 34. It was of simple wood, very un-ornate, of the North American protestant puritan grain. I remember the Kennedy assassination, a whole three days starting the day after on Friday, if I remember right, all the weekend the networks showed nothing but slides of old wooden churches and church yards, posed against stark black and white, plain and wooded, land and tree-scapes. Made an impression on me.
So was I naturally curious as to why the or any church was the only access to world Wonderland ? like a door to a "magical mystery tour". They were tall-on kingdoms, Kingdom of the Lord and Lord of Kings. The then my-church was stark, dark, wood and white walls, without much adornment, make your own ghosts.
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