The door was open a crack, so I thought I'd slip in

"I'm the only guy that could do it too"

Fail Tips

I will be internet famous after this class.

Maximus

Then there's this guy

Isaiah 50:4 (Palm Sunday)

Penny said they'd be happy to have me at 3:30 when Bingo was over.

Annie thought I was a looker.

The outside, inside out (the want for more and more God)

"When the ocean surges, don't let me just hear it.

Let it splash inside my chest!" - Rumi

Marriage and other affairs

My girlfriend

My wife

Matthew 6:26

"Look at the birds in the sky..."

Dead friends, dear friends, and two friends that killed one another off.

When I met a woman once, I was excited to learn the side of literature she would teach me - for when I met her, philosophy and theology were my main choices, while poetry and fiction were secondary, lest they tended towards the afore mentioned subjects; she on the other hand, had poetry literally locked into her body. So this was very exciting, we could both become better rounded - a mutual, and probably common desire - at least for the type of individuals that would attract us both.

I had heard of many of these dead people, and read smatterings from many of them-but she was my great push. To have an instructor in the form of desire and youth and beauty and humor and madness...oh how well could I finally learn! More than any philosopher's recommendation, or personal curiousness; even over the suggestion of thirty or forty other people throughout life (some I respected!), I was shoved to this other side of the library by my [ __ ] for my instructor.

I enjoy it here, I knew I would, and getting what I wanted and ambling about these other sides of the library, I find the fulfillment of my old hopeful assumption of her thumbprint upon my life - but also a burden to join my literary traveling. I meet new poets, and those new poets and authors lead me to even newer ones (mostly all dead), and in my first discussions with them, these dead men and women mostly all mention their relation to her - thanks friends, as if I didn't know or guess that already. As luck would have it, thus far, my innate love of literature outweighs the "strange frenzy in my head" (Rumi) - And maybe I gave her something she will find worthwhile, at least I hope to have.

---

There are those dead individuals I meet and initially (and sometimes even well into our relationship) have a hard time listening to because I can only think to invite her to this party - though I always assume her scent has hung wherever I go before I've been there, and if not, then I hope and assume it soon will as our voracious natures were a similar trait.

So maybe I invite her to these parties in the silence of my heart (and of the library! shhh!) but she does not come (because it's all the frenzy of my own foolish head and boyish heart). However when she did come, and now, when her ghosts come, they come very specifically into the heart of a boy of about five years old - for that is the heart into which thus far she alone has ever had access to.

---

When I was five and my mother was at college and my grandma was sleeping and my maid was asleep and the silence of the afternoon in a warm India enveloped me - with everyone napping, even on the streets, while yet somewhere car horns in the distance echoed in argument and frustration - it was then I had some of the last times I was alone, for thereafter, loneliness became more present. I had my toys and explored my curiosity to my hearts content. Looking back on this, as I have been for some months, I realize that that time in my life is what I refer to (quite accurately I might add) as my 'secret garden'. Soon after that my life began swishing about and I moved all over the place and saw many people come and go and hung on to some that I shouldn't have. My shell began forming as I became more conscious of hurt while forgetting the peace of my secret garden to balance it out. Until very recently, nothing was like my secret garden - and even now, in moments of formal and especially informal meditative practice, the peaceful sensation is an echo of those young and warm afternoons alone.

That five year old heart, that's where she walked in, and walks in and out of yet today; into my secret garden - which at the time was even hidden from me! Looking back I feel I saw her walk in as a girl, since I was a boy, and she was my friend, my absolute best friend. I cannot express this well at all by the way, only the silence in and on and about my face will give anyone any idea what I am saying. The buoyancy of it, the fluidity; like a needle straight into water - this is how my friend came into me with her poets and laughter.

My child saw the inner child in this blazing woman of intelligence and humor, of darkness and light, of bread and shadow...a muse like none I have ever thus far encountered; my words fail my bewilderment at this reality by the way - and I believe she was easily placed as such a weighty muse because after all, it is the young heart which creates!

So as young adults, from and in my young heart she laughed with me and we would make mischief together while my grandma slept and the whole world was napping. Then as people awoke, she would go away - my secret best friend, and we would laugh in the way that only two people with an inside joke can - because I knew she would be back, and we would meet again tomorrow and the rest of my day would be a joy. As she dissolves into the horizon and air, our eyes do not break their desirous, playful, and wholly trusting contact.

None of this friendship happened in India of course, or at all really; it's just the only way I've found to express the reality of the emotion which a woman I once met brought out in me. This expression you're reading is the reality of my heart, in actuality however, we were young adults in midwest America during the end of the Bush administration and the beginings of the Obama administration; and during this period, I feel I was ignorant in my matters, i.e. my secret garden was a secret even to me!

I can only believe that the little boy misses his little friend still - why else would I be writing all this? His secret garden friend..my secret garden friend, who came with an unconscious invite and planted her flowers everywhere. Can I be faulted for tending to them? Would you expect I let the flowers die because it'd be easier? You must be a stranger then, I'm much too much of a gardner for all that; too avid a lover of fragrance - and my nostrils grow with each deep breath as my lung capacity begins taking in the whole world.

---

It's been about twenty-two years since that little boy had any attention or peace, and the first person to ever be able to remind me he was still alive came with the romantic poets and the wise old lovers. Now I personally will not say what love is, as no language will even try and speak of it (for the language and I both know it will be utterly falsified with one syllable!); but somewhere in that silence, under the quiet of Indian afternoons, in my secret garden - my secret best friend whispered to me what love was - and now her dead friends tell me I know what they mean by love and light and bread and shadow. Her whisper of love, translated by God, is some of the only peace that little boy has had in a very long time.

So maybe it'll one day be like Leonard Cohen in the last line of 'Chelsea Hotel No.2 ' and I'll end these protracted digressions and expressions from the undercurrent with the words, "That's all, I don't even think of you that often" - but for now at least, it seems to me that she'll always be walking around my secret garden, a few steps ahead of me, into all the libraries I go; a ghost introducing me to other dead friends. I'm sure she would've once loved and hated that.

"A man's face is his autobiography." - Oscar Wilde

Evil Karan

Party Karan

Persian Creepster Karan

Uncle Karan!

"Cause what is dancing/ Making love set to music playin" - Franky Sinatra

"And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh."

- Friedrich Nietzsche

There is a thin line between Love and Hate

Last year I was going to go to Paris - didn't work out; I was also working towards a trip which would have provided the opportunity for Geneva, Switzerland with a surprise trip over to Paris and then Italy (a surprise for my companion) - also did not work out...on both counts.

I wasn't all that concerned with Italy when I overherad my friends speaking this morning about the trip I'm not going to be able to take. Her air (Italy) I've already taken in and it is very close inside me, near my heart somewhere I'm sure - the air is so sweet! In fact, it's the air that helps me understand what Rumi says about taking "sips of breath" - it really was like I was drinking the air. mmm.

But Paris, you and me madam, are getting of to some start here; first you promise me romance and Ray Lamontagne - I dreamt of engagement on your tower; then you give me an onslaught of memories for things that never happened, and even a language writers, and artists, and lovers must know! I had you framed incorrectly in my mind due to my small dealings with you in my youthful trips back home, some of your people were rude to my mother [I still growl for her to you] - then you took on a new light, you became half the soul of a soul whom I attempted giving my own (or something...I don't know) - thereafter I realized how much you influenced things I loved, I even played a role as a Prince that built your roads.

Then you said no to everything. Now you seduce me again, overheard conversation about you comes, slipping into my ear and your shadows fill my body. You don't leave me alone Paris, and some part of me already hates you without knowing you intimately. I don't like you madam, you remind me of what's lost - and still, you make me desire you! You won't leave me alone! So get ready future sweetheart, for I am going to come to you and have my revenge. I will enjoy your food and your history, I will converse fluidly in your language, I will embrace the memories of those things which never occured, those hopes which you laughingly tore into pieces - I will hold those tortures and splinters within the hopes and future memories of our solitary union. I will have my romance with you Paris, you yourself will wipe away the ink blots that you yourself spill inside my heart and mind. If you won't leave me alone, then fine, I won't leave you alone - I'm coming to get you baby, and you'll have my growl as love.

Animal

"This must be what I wanted to be doing,
Walking at night between the two deserts,

Singing." - W.S. Merwin (Air)

Long Way Coming

Here's another song I've been keeping close.

When I see you again, I'll see the light of Christ shining in you

And when I hear your voice, I hear the angels singing too.

Cause it's been a long, a long long long, way coming.

When I hold your face, I feel the warmth of seven suns

And when your lips reach mine, the sky will shake with joy, sweet woman

Cause it's been a long, a long long long, way coming.

We never once walked away, we never once walked alone

The Father shines in our face, and my future seems bright once more

Cause it's been a long, a long long long, way coming.

When you eyes look through me, you'll see the man your love transformed

And when you take my hand, you'll know the man you once loved is gone.

Cause it's been a long, a long long long, way coming.

So Hotmail, we meet again...again

If you're keeping any tabs, you'll know Hotmail and I were close friends for eight years - then it began changing on me; sending random emails sent out using my name, I had to put a stop to it. But alas! I stopped even myself from getting in - then this morning, hark! What's this! An email, from the God's of Hotmail, "You have three days to do this, and you only have once change" - I felt as if that one email would explode lest I not complete my task in time - and perfectly! "We have verified your contents" - good thing I used to use it to chat. All the old subject headings for personal emails still jostling about my 'aching mind' - information crucial to verifying ones account. What's your pets name!? What's your fathers involvement with the KGB!? Where were you born!? So many questions, it never ended, but this was for Hotmail, and the morphine they gave me, kept me an open book....

Delete cookies, delete files, "Clear the cache!!!" They yelled as a battle cry guarding the email trolls approach the castle of my Hotmail account; link, copy - paste - reset - and inevitably....victory!

Now if this happens to you (or me again!) we'll need to verify our account, and finding that link is a bitch. So I’ve posted it below for us. Let us go forth, and conquer the emails troll hunters.

https://support.live.com/eform.aspx?productKey=wlidvalidation

An expression of excited passion by Lord Byron called...

"I would I were a careless child"

I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this - again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The world was ne'er designed for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth! - wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loves - but those I love are gone;
Had friends - my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill'
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart - the heart - is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign
This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue know, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men -
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.

- Lord Byron

mmmm mmm mmm, thanks George.

Thuggery

I actually find this quite impressive - whatdyathink?

Untitled for now - suggest titles if you wannnaaaaaaaaaa.

There’s a love I feel/ unlike I’ve seen before
And I know what it is/ cause I know where I been
You can’t know what I mean/ cause you’re not around
But this love, this love/ this love, this love is what I wish we had now

The moon she keeps smiling/ telling me to go home
And the stars, they keep shining/ reminding me I’m not alone
And you can’t know what I mean/ cause you’re not around
But this love, this love/ this love, this love is what I wish we had now
What I wish we had now
What I wish we had now
What I wish we had now

Golden flames still holding on/ relics of a setting sun
The winds blow warm again/ on cold nights beloved one
And you can’t know what I mean/ cause I'm not around
But this love, this love/ this love, this love is what I wish we had now
What I wish we had now
What I wish we had now
What I wish we had now

-Spout & The Freshwater

"When you have insomnia, everything is a copy, of a copy, of a copy..." - Narrator

"When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you're not here, I can't go to sleep.

Praise God for those two insomnias!

And the difference between them."

-Rumi

So Hotmail, we meet again

Dudes. Misses...es.

My email got phished, so I updated my security settings on my hotmail. I forgot my password, answered my security questions, and then have been blocked out for like a month. Nothing seems to help me and I've had that email for like 8 years. If any of you know anyone else who can help; or if you're a passerby on this blog surfing the net then help me - being Indian you'd think I could call my bretheren and insta-fix it - but alas, no, I'm just fucked.

Okay, and one more because it's too good, but now you go watch the rest.

Sigh...

[little smirk]

Love

A Natural Disaster (thanks Pablo Neruda)

Stony face looks back at me/ I wonder why.../ The Fire Dancers seem at peace/ I watch them smile.../ My name is Volcano - nice to meet you ocean breeze. A new dress falls to the ground/ I wonder why.../A full mouth wants me around/ I watch it smile.../ My name is Desire, nice to meet you seven seas. And I wish I could, let you come with me. And I wish I could let you, let you come with me. I love you as dark things should be loved/ I don't know why.../So I drop my roses and I get up/ I guess I smile.../My name is Tornado, nice to meet you memory. And I wish I could let you, let you come with me/ I wish I could let you come with me.

-Spout & The Freshwater

Just about anything in the world for you

These two videos show the way he can be so forceful or so brittle - but firm. The second song (Hey me, Hey Mama) only hints at it. There is a much greater force, a tidal wave and volcano in this man's chest that other songs by him bring out especially live (go look - Henry Nearly Killed me is a good starting point). Other times it swells within the song like an ocean wave raising a boat and rolling over like a roller coaster. It's good is what I'm saying; powerful - and I could talk about it for a very long time.

I was told I looked and sounded like him at a show, my jean shirt and beard, wrestling out my demons into a mic - my leg does this shaky thing that was also pointed out to me now. But then the next week these strangers see a shaved face, don't recognize me (neither do I) and I'm wearing an undone bow-tie. And good and better this way, Ray should have exclusive rights over himself.

It's a funny thing this time time time.

Oh, it's up there, yeah, it was really special.

Out of sight, and mind, and body.

In one part rising, another part lays dead.

Am I a dead man speaking?

Or a living man, speaking of life once seen in the corpse he now sees?

My prayer is, and is from, and is for my love - and my love, is my lover.

You don't know what I mean? It does not matter,

If you do not know, then you will begin understanding - this much I am told I may promise.

Come, take me out of myself, again and again, let me forget myself in all good manner, in all bad manner; bring me to the blessed quiet of God.

---

A splinter, a thorn, an ice pick, an axe.

You are dynamite for my setting sun, and fabric for my nakedness.

Logic Logic Logic! Blah! To hell with logic; is it not said that, "The heart has it's reasons which reason cannot know?" - Pascal

Is it not said that, "A mind all logic is like a knief all blade?" - Tagore

Imagine a windshield impacted by a rock - spider-web!

Do you see what you're reading now?

---

Why are your eyes closed? Oh I see, you must think they are open.

Do you think my eyes see?

Is it not said, "Remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you see clearly to remove the splinter from your brother's eye?" - Jesus

What I see I cannot name, so what use are these eyes bringing me?

Who speaks like this?

One who must name everything.

But we cannot live as Adam - as we live in Christ.

Is it not said that "God's first language is silence?" - Keating

Then what must I name? Nothing Nothing Nothing!
My mouths beauty says more than beautiful words.

---

Do you know how I mean?

That our eyes will see nothing more beautiful than their looking?

That a beam in one, splinters the other?

Even out of sight, and mind, and body -

Can't you see?

Oh, I see, you must think our eyes are already open.

Bold as Love

Now I don't know how John Mayer got ahold of the rights to do this song, and I don't care if it's good or not as I preferred it untouched by any hands other than Jimi (at least on a worldwide published scale - random covers are acceptable - though Ray Lamontagne covering this would be totally fine with me...in fact, umm, yeah, I want that).

I used to clean my house with this song -blaring-back when I first moved out when I was 16 years old. My little apartment in Minot, ND. Especially when the weather changed, similar to how it is now in Ohio. Springtime sun as a break from the overwhelming winters (not as bad in Ohio). I can imagine it as if I watch someone else, my windows open, sun streaming lighting up the dust, baggy clothes and the consistent smell of old smoke and sometimes incense. I thought I knew so much. Like I wouldn't even think about how much I knew because I 'knew' so much. Alas, this means I just didn't think most of the time; or rather, I didn't consider and watch my thoughts - thinking doesn't generally stop till death, it's just what we do with the thinking right?

anyways, I'm reminiscing and that isn't the point. I've missed writing on here (blog) but mostly I've just been writing songs and I keep those close. I have been working on aphorisms and poetic philosophy but it's all bleh and eh; the spring time is nice, and the rain will be a welcome change from the gusty winter.

So the post initially began because I was thinking of this song; the lyrics are amazing and 11 years later I love it more, I appreciate it with new eyes. When I'm sixty four I wonder how I'll consider this song? Besides the obviously inspired lyrics, the music is staggeringly good. I almost can't blare it anymore because I'm instantly transported back in time. Songs have a funny way of doing that. But with enough meditation I guess (i'm told) we can lose our heads so that memories are just other thoughts floating by and we can pick to play with them or not, to enjoy them or to treasure them, and then to let them go again. thoughts like feathers. Buncha birds flappin.

check out the lyrics, and then listen to the song my friends, its absolute silk for the ears and water for the heart and soul - or something like that...

See you where we're all Bold as Love dudes,

"ANGER! HE SMILES TOWERING IN SHINY METALLIC PURPLE ARMOUR QUEEN JEALOUSY ENVY WAITS BEHIND HIM HER FIREY GREEN GOWN SNEERS AT THE GRASSY GROUND BLUE ARE THE LIFE-GIVING WATERS TAKEN FOR GRANTED THEY QUIETLY UNDERSTAND ONCE HAPPY TURQUOISE ARMIES LAY OPPOSITE READY BUT WONDER WHY THE FIGHT IS ON BUT THEY ALL BOLD AS LOVE YEAH THEY ALL BOLD AS LOVE YEAH THEY ALL BOLD AS LOVE JUST ASK THE AXIS MY RED IS SO CONFIDENT HE FLASHES TROPHIES OF WAR AND RIBBONS OF EUPHORIA ORANGE IS YOUNG FULL OF DARING BUT VERY UNSTEADY FOR THE FIRST GO 'ROUND MY YELLOW IN THIS CASE IS NOT SO MELLOW IN FACT I'M TRYING TO SAY IT'S FRIGHTENED LIKE ME AND ALL THESE EMOTIONS OF MINE KEEP HOLDING ME FROM UH GIVING MY LIFE TO A RAINBOW LIKE YOU BUT I'M UH YEAH I'M BOLD AS LOVE YEAH YEA-AHWELL I'M BOLD, BOLD AS LOVE HEAR ME TALKING GIRLI'M BOLD AS LOVEJUST ASK THE AXIS HE KNOWS EVERYTHINGYEAH, YEAH, YEAH"

-Jimi Hendrix

Oh how I love my country

I can't really know the experience of watching this without a) knowing what he's saying and b) seeing it first hand. The way Indians are just generally completely unconcerned with personal space is jarring and awesome. They're concered with it, but what are you gonna do, there's only so much room dude.

It's as if that much population and that little space creates a familiarity with anyone and everyone and the idea of keeping one's own space is respected, except that it's a laughable fantasy for probably 99% of the population.

"To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit." - Shakespear, Sonnet XXIII

" Listen, when all of this around us will fall over,

I'll tell you what we're gonna do

You will shelter me, my love

And I,

I will shelter you"

-Ray Lamontagne

What that says

So Madness 1:1 says, "Be."

Buuuuut...I think it sounds better in Engrish.

The site is full of hilarious stuff, this is actually one of the less funny ones, I just liked it. So! Check out the site here! Engrishfunny.com!

1 Corinthians 10:23a

(The conversion of St. Paul)

"Everything is permitted", but not everything is beneficial.

People are always asking me, do I know Tyler Durden?

1 Thessalonians 3:3

Click here for to go to a super cute, often funny website - My First Fail!

Let's go

"We are unique variations of eachother" The Madman Laughs at Everything - Section One

The poverty in India stayed with me. Each year I go back I see the same children and families growing older, coming up to the same people they watch change and evolve at the same stop lights. I remember some anxiety or sadness when one little girl didn't come up after a few days of being there; the brothels and murder are real options to these people.

I never feel I do enough, and I frankly don't do enough, but I also don't know what that means. I guess if I don't lend my whole life and entire existence to such cause (poverty, fresh water, education, etc.) then I feel I am doing nothing even if I'm taking care of those around me to my best ability.

Poverty strikes me very deeply, images of old men coated in pollution sitting naked in the middle of the hustle and bustle of those who showered and ate rise to my minds surface quickly. The blind man with leprosy and his old wife getting older each year - sometimes they have a new can they hang on the bandaged nub where what's left of his hand is - that nub gets smaller each year. The young girls holding their naked and crying siblings. Watching those siblings grow.

I remember seeing them turn down jobs offered by my grandparents and take the whips that hands from other cars would throw out; I even saw my uncles side of the family do it once and it was very jarring to me. Cops get in on this as well - the refuse, the unwanted, the pests - the image of that old man staring blankly in blistering heat sitting amongst the hustle and bustle comes to mind. I wonder if he was just waiting to die.

I went for a laugh today to a site called 'Friends of Irony' (linked the name for you) - and there I found this pic - and though ironic, made me sad that this could even be on a site dedicated to giving little mini laughs to get you through some lulls...or whatever, that's what I use it for (and there are others too!). So no fault of the site, but of the culture that accepts this reality; I don't know, I've been told I'm idealistic - but I've been told by The Madman who laughs at Everything that "An Idealist is a person with an idea, and a list" - Madness 27:10

So instead here's the picture of irony with a quote that frames it properly. Now to make a list. Number one, write out emotions in blog article to clear head - done. On our way! Yipee!

"When a poor person dies of hunger, it has not happened because God did not take care of him or her. It has happened because neither you nor I wanted to give that person what he or she needed." - Mother Teresa

Wet Roses Dripping

"When the torrent of my passion no longer fears its own rush, I will flow rapidly and flood my own desert"

-The Madman Laughs at Everything

Poetry began making sense to me

I've held this poem for sometime, and I mean that; I held it carefully and let it gaze into my eyes. I held the back of its head and breathed it into myself and allowed it breathe myself into it. I held it and knew one day we would have to expose our private love. Somehow today I guess it decided it wanted to take our relationship public; now we hold hands, now we walk side by side.

I want you to know one thing/You know how this is/ If I look at the crystal moon/ At the red branch of the slow autumn at my window/ If I touch near the fire the impalpable ash/ Or the wrinkled body of the log/ Everything carries me to you/ As if everything that exists - aromas, light, metals/ Were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me/ Well, now/ If little by little you stop loving me/ I shall stop loving you little by little/ If suddenly/ You forget me/ Do not look for me/ For I shall already have forgotten you/ If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners, that passes through my life/ And you decide/ To leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots/ Remember/ That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms/ And my roots will set off to seek another land/ But, if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me/ With implacable sweetness/ If each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me/ Ahh my love, ahh my own, in me all that fire is repeated/ In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten/ My love feeds on your love, beloved/ And as long as you live, it will be in your arms without leaving mine

-Pablo Neruda

Bob Dylan Revisited

13 Graphic interpretations of Bob Dylan Songs.

Bob Dylan: Revisited

"A Hard Rains-A-Gonna Fall"

"I seen a new born baby with wild wolves all around it

I saw a Highway of diamonds with nobody on it"

"Blowin' in the Wind"

"The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind

The answer is blowin' in the wind"

"Hurricane"

"Here comes the story of the Hurricane"

There are also interpretations of "Desolation Row" "Blind Willie McTell" "Lay Lady Lay" (a very short interpretation) "Girl From the North Country" (could've cried looking at it but was in bookstore so flipped page) "I Want You" and others. These are the ones that I remember on my quick run through (didn't have time to sit and soak in it). Each song I can see in my mind and was a little experience as the jukebox of my brain sang the words I was reading. Then too I would sometimes try to read it as words and not hear the song - that was a cool little experience too.

The work can't quite attain the imagery Bobby's words evoke (if you are a person so inclined I guess) but it's a neat little thing to at least go look through. It would have to be more of a gift for me (at $25) but a gift I would totally totally dig.