Bob Dylan - "Mississippi"
Something about Bob Dylan's music always works its way into my soul and calms me down. I would have loved to post a link to the gentler, acoustic version of this song from the Tell Tale Signs bootleg collection, but this is the best that YouTube could provide. Both sides of my family hail from Mississippi, and I plan to spend some time there in the fall doing some research into family history.
Every step of the way we walk the line Your days are numbered, so are mine Time is pilin’ up, we struggle and we scrape We’re all boxed in, nowhere to escape
City’s just a jungle; more games to play Trapped in the heart of it, tryin' to get away I was raised in the country, I been workin’ in the town I been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down
Got nothin' for you, I had nothin' before Don’t even have anything for myself anymore Sky full of fire, pain pourin’ down Nothing you can sell me, I’ll see you around
All my powers of expression and thoughts so sublime Could never do you justice in reason or rhyme Only one thing I did wrong Stayed in Mississippi a day too long
Well, the devil’s in the alley, mule’s in the stall Say anything you wanna, I have heard it all I was thinkin’ 'bout the things that Rosie said I was dreaming I was sleepin' in Rosie’s bed
Walkin' through the leaves, falling from the trees Feelin' like a stranger nobody sees So many things that we never will undo I know you’re sorry, I’m sorry too
Some people will offer you their hand and some won’t Last night I knew you, tonight I don’t I need somethin’ strong to distract my mind I’m gonna look at you ’til my eyes go blind
Well I got here followin' the southern star I crossed that river just to be where you are Only one thing I did wrong Stayed in Mississippi a day too long
Well my ship’s been split to splinters and it’s sinkin' fast I’m drownin’ in the poison, got no future, got no past But my heart is not weary, it’s light and it’s free I’ve got nothin’ but affection for all those who’ve sailed with me
Everybody movin’ if they ain’t already there Everybody got to move somewhere Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow Things should start to get interestin' right about now
My clothes are wet, tight on my skin Not as tight as the corner that I painted myself in I know that fortune is waitin’ to be kind So give me your hand and say you’ll be mine
Well, the emptiness is endless, cold as the clay You can always come back, but you can’t come back all the way Only one thing I did wrong Stayed in Mississippi a day too long
Formative influences.
I love The Golden Girls!
I say this unashamedly and without irony. After my history of physical and intellectual pursuits and a man card validated by a shelf of karate trophies in my room, I will say it again. I love The Golden Girls!
I love telling that to people. It really throws them off and I get a good laugh. But I say it with all sincerity.
The Golden Girls was helmed by Christopher Lloyd, who is responsible for producing many, many hit TV shows over the years, Modern Family being his most recent hit. But it pales in contrast to The Golden Girls, which was perfectly cast, brilliantly written, and much less dated today than the sorely Modern Family will be in twenty years. And did you know that Bea Arthur was a truck driver for the USMC?
But it is special to me for other reasons than its comedic excellence.
Like many grandparents, mine watched a lot of television. My maternal grandmother must have seen every episode ever produced of Seinfeld, Frasier, and The Golden Girls. When I was only about seven or eight years old, I used to watch "her shows" with her for a few minutes at a time, and the only one that ever held my attention was TGG. Something about the razor-sharp delivery of cutting one-liners, whose actual meaning was far above my head at the time, struck a chord of comedic appreciation with me, even as a child, and I would laugh hysterically at Sophia's deadpan delivery of snark and insults.
I grew up with my grandparents' friends, on both sides of the family. Through holidays, dinners and sunday brunches, I was introduced from infancy to an eclectic and boisterous mix of personalities. They were a hilarious group of people; they loved nothing better than to get together and pass the time.
A Sunday brunch at my dad's old family home overlooking Woodland Bayou would begin as soon as the bell rang the close of service at my grandparents' church and would not end until the shadows grew long in the afternoon. Men and women who had known each other for thirty years or more would gather in ever-shifting clumps of conversation inside and outside the house and pass an afternoon laughing over rich food and fizzing cocktails.
As one of the younger members of the family, I was not an active part of many conversations, but the overall experience made an impression on me. Every time I attend or assist with a party, I am hoping in the back of my mind that it will be comparable to the uproarious good times had by interesting people at my grandparents' home. Sadly, such events never occur by design; they create themselves from the interaction of the people who attend. Experience has taught me that just as good food will never be truly appreciated by people whose palates have been conditioned by McDonalds, a generation (in this case, my own) raised on smart phones and online friends lists are rarely apt to take advantage of opportunities to actively engage in storytelling, joke-swapping and yarn-spinning.
And, personally, I think that what I saw in the personalities I saw on display among my grandparents and their peers is why I love The Golden Girls as much as I do. Many of those people are dead now, but when I watch the clashes of articulate personalities on TGG, I am strongly reminded of people I knew, but did not appreciate as much as I should have when I had the chance. The Golden Girls is, for me, a glimpse into the lives of fictional characters created from personalities I knew in real life. And even though I didn't know them well, I can, in retrospect, appreciate who they were, and consequently feel their absence.
It's like dark chocolate; a combination of bitterness and sweetness. A celebration of strong friendships which could survive witty, biting and stinging deliveries of insights. Friendships that were articulate, often strained, but always strong and supportive.
Thrill of the Chase
I hate writing research papers. It's tedious, there's an unstated expectation for the verbiage to be high and lofty, I can't use the phrase "high and lofty," and my proclivity to use the Oxford comma is looked upon with suspicion and disdain.
However, I love research. My inner journalist loves the thrill of finding new information and putting it to constructive use. I love it when Google Books turns up an obscure gem from an hundred years ago. I love it when reading source material which spawned plays and films yields a rich and diverse crop of expanded thoughts and ideas. I love how the preliminary process of compiling a codex of bibliography is always a good excuse to turn on a few episodes of Frasier while I browse databases and mark down the resources to which I will return.
I have also become enamored with oral history projects. Interviews. Storytelling. There is a certain magic that happens when someone lets down their guard and freely shares memories and stories with people who, wonder of wonders, actually give a damn about things they went through years ago. A moment is shared and, for a brief moment, a group of individuals can experience the oral tradition of pure storytelling. The raw power of the spoken word should make us tingle in the marrow; the ability to form and use words to pass on stories and experiences is hardwired into our DNA. The cave paintings in Lascaux don't exist in a vacuum. The absence of written words should not be equated with the absence of narrative and experience.
When one takes into account the innumerable events which every individual in the world experiences on a daily basis, then considers just how few of them are written down in their entirety, it is almost startling just how little will be remembered from individuals' lives if people don't talk to each other and share their recollections. This is one reason I am striving to find my way to a career in documentary filmmaking. I regret so much that I didn't spend more time with my grandparents before they passed. There were always moments; like sudden flashes of lightening, when conversations following a family meal would finally veer away from the present, and stories (often hilarious vignettes from my family's Deep South heritage), would be shared. I miss those people, and now that I am older and have enough perspective to fully appreciate what they were sharing, I miss those times more every year.
I often get the feeling that the rest of my life is going to be one long mea culpa for not spending more time listening to the departed.