tangledupinblue

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River gonna take me
Sing me sweet and sleepy
Sing me sweet and sleepy
all the way back back home
It's a far gone lullaby
sung many years ago
Mama, Mama, many worlds I've come
since I first left home


Goin home, goin home
by the waterside I will rest my bones
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
to rock my soul


Goin to plant a weeping willow
On the banks green edge it will grow grow grow
Sing a lullaby beside the water
Lovers come and go - the river roll roll roll


Fare you well, fare you well
I love you more than words can tell
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
to rock my soul


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"That boy, he lives inside of his own mind. . . That's a mighty big place to live."

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These journal entries . . . They are less entries in a narrative sense and more fragments of movies, songs, iconography. I can't make connections of the flow right now. Just too spent -- "But it's just like a dead man's last pistol shot baby" -- a little Dylan for those of you who miss the daily nod to Bob. And where has the daily Dylan gone? He'll be back . . . but somewhere through this long road I hooked up first with Sam Cooke and then the Dead, and I'm going to ride the Dead all the way to the end. The give my succor and make me laugh and feel a kind of watery feeling in my heart and head and remind me of some sort of purity and purpose and mellowness and singularity whose dead ass I left lying by the side of the road some time ago.

Purity is elusive, and it's something I've always wanted in the sense of taking characters or people I've seen as being monolithic -- John Coffee, Karl from Slingblade, Duddits Cavell, people who never even realized they were on a road -- let alone realized they made choices that set them down those roads, OR people too principled to ever consider any other way -- see Finch, Atticus which leads me to . . .

Regrets. Regrets are in interesting subject. Lot of people don't seem to have them, and I'm happy for them, because that obviously liberates them from a lot of second-guessing and self-doubt. I have a lot of regrets. I think some I'd like to get rid of because "done can't be undone". Others are regrets I'll keep, and I think rightly keep aware of, because hey, I've wronged people, and that I don't want to do again -- in little ways and not so little ways. If I didn't regret doing it, what sort of man would I be? Not a very Kantian one, that is for sure. And the categorical imperative has a lot of value, even in this day and age of situational ethics.

This is Trash