Take notes. Last Church Standing could be a book title. I live in the Blue Ridge. Our little towns all have a kinda strange housing market where $250,000 buys you one bedroom. I lived in a church once in Michigan. My bedroom was the balcony. It was a great place to write. How does architecture play romance with the light of soaring. I’m autistic and could spend an entire day just watching the sun move from window to window in more of a caress than spilling. When is worship worship. We danced in there. We made music (loud). We had a drawing class where (it was rumored) artist models had no clothes. Gasp. Every male for twenty miles signed up for that art class. Art is a den of depravity. “We thought we were getting a beautiful woman to model” I was told. “What we got was you. Can we bring our cameras.” I am now a little sorry I said no. The church was haunted. Or. What was it that started playing the organ at four in the morning. That organ was worth more than the church. The building was a big bad box of fun things. We played dress up and put on shows. My favorite was the light show. With flashlights. We made huge fish fries for the entire community. Solemnity is not quite my vibe. Solemnity is a looking down because we are not worthy of seeing the angry face of god. Fiddledeedee. I don’t look down. I look up. Soaring.