the evening redness from business 74.

When you start talking about sin-consciousness, you broach a pretty large topic, and at any time, only a spit of it shows, while so much remains elusive.  And when we speak of old sins, the conversation turns inevitably to the discount superstore, where they have been at times apt to put such sins on full display.  During those times, I feel like a part of me is dying, but I walk along, giving no sign, not "tipping-off" usually.  There was a matter from some two decades ago that kept resurfacing, in more than one store, and in more than one state, used, as one's private matters are, as "grist for the mill".

In the Rockingham North Carolina store, I stood near the offensive evidence during lunch breaks, for the purpose of keeping the fact fresh on my mind that they were using it, and definitely not to remind myself of the original event.  But the matter runs much deeper in my view than some publicly-exposed private information, sensitive past the point of ruining someone's life.

But this is the world we live in.  Ruined life.

Put it past you for a minute, CD.  Listen to some music.  Read a book.  Drink some soda.

As they said of 9/11, does the discount superstore live-up to the slogan, "never forget".  Under the Baptist doctrine we are told that all sin is equally bad, but its denominational as to which are real sins and which are simply matters of convenience.  Sloth, hatred, whatever.  The person carries his or her own past like a massive tumor, while the store bustles.

Something old.

Something new.

Something borrowed.

Something blue.

In my perview, it was a matter of sin-consciousness, with the store acting as its own kind of Guantanamo Bay lock-up, set on repeat, and I the prisoner in a cage lined with journal pages from my own life.

One sin was the old blog, like it was said that I had really told too much about myself.  However, truth be told, I didn't talk much about myself, past writing from my own point-of-view, which everyone does, anyway.  My coworkers seemed to hate the thing, anyway, pointing out that no one read it, but they knew what was written there just the same, with one even suggesting it was a fun game to try and convince me, via a lot of rude comments, to delete the thing for good.(he still works there, same job, actually, these ten years later)

Sin-consciousness, again.  But the ruse worked eventually, as within six months the blog was gone.

And all the talk of privacy concerns is "kayfabe" to burn screen time and boost ad-buys, meanwhile, when we talk of zombies we're not speaking in terms of some code word for people in a committed relationship, or terrorists, but a kind of person sent out to act as a mirror, to have a kind of performance for a few minutes in front of the victim.  And when I talk about it, I'm more often than not the victim.

The undeniable novelty of the situation is to respond in such a way that contributes no new material, just as the so-called zombie tries to do, with the actual win evidenced by a decided look of confusion on the face of the other person.