On Love:
-- Bob Dylan
I never thought that I would feel like Mr. Jones (and even at the time), but now I wonder.
I have made many assumptions that proved to be inaccurate, some to my great embarrassment at the time, some seen only later, through a glass, dimly (ok, darkly). My understanding of love, the meaning and place of love, the feeling of love, bound by its time, comes back to me now like AM waves reflected by the atmosphere.
There was a time when I assumed that I knew what it meant, that we all knew what it meant, but the meaning eluded and morphed into the summer of love, the Robert Indiana sculpture, the happy face, the I heart NY.
I am turning the pages of the great books and revisiting the great teachings: it is in there somewhere. It is also in the subway car, I know it; I can see the thread dangling before my face. Do I reach for it?
On Revolution:
-M.

