‘Six crooked highways’ comes from a line in Bob Dylan’s ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ (“I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways”), which I thinks sums up my largely random existence to this point. The fact that Dylan’s song itself derives from an English folk song, ‘Lord Randall’ (“Where did you go, Lord Randall my son? Where did you go, my beloved one?”) simply underlines the derivative and iterative nature of who and what we are.
Memories, it would seem, are simply stories we tell ourselves about the past, in which we are the lead character in scenarios where we and others are either heroes or villains to varying degrees. I have written stories, poems, fragments and rants since primary school. Some have survived the test of time but many more have fallen victim to multiple house moves, occasional bonfires of the vanities of my more excruciating efforts and my propensity to give away single drafts of poems for special occasions to friends and relatives.
Both my memories of people, places and environments and my writing at those times are constructs at best but they were part of me then.
In retirement from most of my past worlds, many of those constructs are new. However they still only represent my attempts to describe the elephant of my life by reaching out and touching it, blind-folded, on any given day.
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