No direction home

Taliesin sky V-dub
No direction home Mad mailbox

The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev’rything’s been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes

The more you hear Highway 61 Revisited the more it resonates with
the feeling of angst and doom anyone born in 1951 feels today. The road
from Hibbing to New Orleans is the road from Joe McCarthy to Karl Rove,
from My Lai to Tikrit, from Esso to Enron.

In Scorsese’s tribute, Joan Baez had it right when she said that for
the people who heard Dylan’s music, it cut right through to their
hearts. After a few beers at the Corte Madera Oktoberfest, even the
walk back to my house could be Highway 61, or even Rue Morgue Avenue.

You raise up your head
And you ask, “Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says
“It’s his”
And you say, “What’s mine?”
And somebody else says, “Where what is?”
And you say, “Oh my God
Am I here all alone?”

See for yourself…

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