This old guy in a Dodge Charger, being pulled around the Lower Hudson Valley by 300 horses, a man without a compass, a man without a wife, drinking too much, eating too little, up half the night, nothing ain’t right.
Next day back on the road, I guess you could say lost, Bob Dylan whining from the stereo, Once upon a time you dressed so fine, you threw the bums a dime in your prime… How does it feel, to be without a home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…
He’s not re-enacting an old fantasy, this is reality, and he really is lost; although when he thinks about it, lost has been found and now found is lost. Write that down, old man. Instead, that midnight in a gin and tonic, he writes down, A dying man dreams. Some are beautiful. And then they stop.
In the Turnpike Tap Room an even older man inquires, Is one ever too old to be a struggling writer? To which the younger old man replies, Is one ever too old to die? The old drunk is looking for his brain. I’m not sure I understand your meaning. The younger old man can no further elaborate than put flesh on the older old man’s bones.
Excerpted from Notes for ‘A Million Miles Away in Fishkill.’
