Yesterday granted admittance to one of the church megaplexes I'd only read about. It's astonishingly true, in the case of intimate spiritual experience, Americans are saying "supersize me." Though the distance of the carpark offered a pedestrian experience rarely known in big boxlandia, one my stagnating arteries welcomed, it was insisted that we board a triple-trailer golf cart for our door-to-door conveyance. An anatomy of zippers were tended to ensure our staying dry beneath a plastic sheath fitted over our battery-powered omnibus. I hollered out to our good Xtian driver as I was nearly mowed down off the back end of our caravan by a good Xtian Cutlass rampaging out of a handicapped parking space. Taking the curb a little faster than would be ordinarily prudent, he narrowly avoided my consumption by Oldsmobile. Praise him. Once inside it was clear that I had entered the new American cultural frontier (still under construction). Retail, cafe and plentiful symptoms of branding dotted the polis ensconcing the stadium-like center of the holy business. The edition of the Bible speckling every pew featured a handy index one could quickly access for the Biblical antidote to host of maladies including peer pressure and divorce. Once the commencement was under way, it was clear from our distance that we would be relying one of the three jumbotrons for our virtual participation. Since I always travel with a tech expert, it was duly noted that the mic'ing did not account for the delay ensured by the cavernous space, so the lips and voices of the speakers moved with subtle disembodiment.
Caps. Gowns. Speeches. Brief thought of returning to earn the velvet beret and bell sleeves. Oh horse feathers.
Later, one may inquire of the nine-year-old about her vocabulary list for the week which includes "Richter Scale" and "seismograph" beside a layer cake buckling with a raspberry subduction zone.
We are given a camera with a perpetually open shutter. My feeling exactly.