Perhaps there will never be the best possible letter ever written. I have almost nothing to tell you. On reading back over some of these letters, I discover, with complete aghast, that most of the time, I speak as though I know you personally, which I don’t. I suppose I get feelings and wonder to myself, why is he so sad? When you are not sad at all. It takes a great effort on my part, not to keep asking (pestering), writing again and again, note after note, letter after letter, each one separate yet the same every day, several times a day.
So then, you conceive your thoughts and I mine and the great task of daily living falls on each of our shoulders in different ways, in different cities, States, perhaps even countries, for all I know, I know nothing.
So it’s the heart. All my life I’ve been thinking it was my intuition that drove me, my keen sense of perception, my isolation at knowing others’ distress, when all along it’s been my heart, knocking about, fully exposing itself to false alarms. Everything I do not know, concerning you, and I really do not know, unlocks in me this constant riddle between my head and my hand. A letter! I think. A letter! I’ll write a letter. Only my head just sits there and my hand is put to work. No, I can’t get rid of my heart. To do so would cause the rest of me to disappear. I’d be nothing left. A wardrobe maybe, a mop of uncontrollable hair.
Why are you sad?
I am so completely surprised and disgusted that Dylan is now a part of what I followed and loved him for opposing. It now costs money to even attempt to send hin an e-mail. He should be very rich and fat and happy. There was not much money in the streets where people sang with him to get freedom so I guess he deserves it but that is not the man we loved. My guitar playing son saw him in Florida recently and I asked if he spoke to him. John Mark replied “dad, you can’t speak to Dylan”. He is a total sell-out which makes me doubt his original intentions. Saw the money down the road not freedom road. I am so confused in emotions,I don’t know whether to laugh at us believing fools or to cry. Well, I won’t be paying to get the address of an agent’s assistant who might see his Highness across a crouded room looking up into the enlightened one’s visage.
I did not mean to be posted as anonymous! I am Walter Turner in The first verse Montgomery, Alabama.
o! this tugs at my heart, too. i especially love this: “for all I know, I know nothing.”
I am genuinely loving the theme/design of your internet
website. Do you ever run into any browser
compatibility issues? A couple of of my weblog readers
have complained about my internet site not working properly in Explorer but looks
wonderful in Chrome. Do you have any suggestions to assist fix
this problem?