There’s some things you like to write, and there’s some you don’t, but you have to because they’re large things you can’t ignore, and because you’re a writer. This is one of the second ones. I grew up believing in a lot of stuff that wasn’t true. But I learned as I went along the truth about things, like that Jesus wasn’t actually god, just a man, a smart, caring man, but a man. I learned Moses wasn’t real at all, he was a mythological figure, possibly a conglomerate of actual figures. I learned that Shakespeare didn’t write the Shakespeare plays, a nobleman named Edward DeVere wrote them, anonymously. I learned that the universe wasn’t sensible, stable and eternal, like Einstein thought, it was expanding, huge but finite and extremely weird. I learned that the grown-up people who were running things didn’t really know what they were doing half the time, or more than half the time. I learned that this very beautiful earth we live on wasn’t indestructible, it was very destructible, and we humans were just the ones who could do it. I learned that Bob Dylan lied his pants off early on, about the carnivals and rodeos and riding trains like a hobo, saying his parents were dead, when they in fact came to see him at Carnegie Hall. After a while, I came to expect that nothing at all was how it appeared. That was the only truth I could finally cull out of all of these constantly crumbling facades.
"There’s some things you like to write, and there’s some you don’t, but"... thank you, anyway, for doing it.
You're welcome. And appreciate the thanks for it.
Well hell, no wonder I never made it big. I’m not able to be something I’m not…well, sober. I’ve pretended to be sober a few times.
Buffy Sainte-Marie might have a psychiatric disorder.
I think so. Some kind of dissociative thing, where she could really believe her fabrications.