I'm going to post two sets of Lyrics for the song "Jolene" One is from Dolly Parton and is an older song, it is a country standard pretty much. Those will be first, Then I am going to post Ray Lamontagne's lyrics. It is a different song, but carries the same kind of story. I'll be working on a story, and will check for ideas as the night wears on. I like my detours when I write.
Jolene - Dolly Parton
Jolene, jolene, jolene, jolene
Im begging of you please dont take my man
Jolene, jolene, jolene, jolene
Please dont take him just because you can
Your beauty is beyond compare
With flaming locks of auburn hair
With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green
Your smile is like a breath of spring
Your voice is soft like summer rain
And I cannot compete with you, jolene
He talks about you in his sleep
Theres nothing I can do to keep
From crying when he calls your name, jolene
And I can easily understand
How you could easily take my man
But you dont know what he means to me, jolene
Jolene, jolene, jolene, jolene
Im begging of you please dont take my man
Jolene, jolene, jolene, jolene
Please dont take him just because you can
You could have your choice of men
But I could never love again
Hes the only one for me, jolene
I had to have this talk with you
My happiness depends on you
And whatever you decide to do, jolene
Jolene, jolene, jolene, jolene
Im begging of you please dont take my man
Jolene, jolene, jolene, jolene
Please dont take him even though you can
Jolene, jolene
Jolene -Ray Lamontagne
Cocaine flame in my bloodstream
Sold my coat when I hit Spokane
Bought myself a hard pack of cigarettes in the early morning rain
Lately my hands they don't feel like mine
My eyes been stung with dust and blind
Held you in my arms one time
Lost you just the same
Jolene
I ain't about to go straight
It's too late
I found myself face down in a ditch
Booze in my hair
Blood in my lips
A picture of you holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means
Jolene
Been so long since I seen your face
Or felt a part of this human race
I've been living out of this here suitcase for way too long
A man needs something he can hold onto
A nine pound hammer or a woman like you
Either one of them things will do
Jolene
I ain't about to go straight
It's too late
I found myself face down in a ditch
Booze in my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means
Jolene
Jolene
Jolene
When I'm done with the story I will post it in this post.
Jolene
Jolene
Jolene, who the hell is Jolene?
This is rough, and I think I'll work on it some more, but wanted to put it up to remind me to do so. The soundtrack to the story is at the bottom. Google "first paragraph of Moby Dick", it will help with the story.
I am about a thousand miles from Boise, give or take a couple hundred. The sign reads Wyoming, and I have no idea what this little town is called. I just remember waking up drunk, laying face first in a ditch. I had blood on my shirt, and my lips. The two different locations were not tied together by some Salvador Dali like road map. The blood on my shirt wasn't mine, it belonged to some fool in the bar that was behind me, the sunshine making it hard to see it, or just hard to look at. The blood on my lips was from inside, somewhere deep. You ought to be in bed Doc. I had sold my car two days before; it had finally given up the ghost. Some guy in a wrecker offered to tow me town, but I told him I'd trade him the car for two hundred bucks and a ride. I got a hundred and thirty, a ride, a beer, and a ham sandwich. I also had a couch to sleep on. In the morning his son drove me to the next town over, and dropped me at this bar. It was the only place I could get a drink. I bought myself a couple packs of cigarettes and had that drink, or twelve. I managed to get myself into a scrap with a local, no idea what it was about. I just remember that damn song coming over the jukebox. Jolene, the Dolly Parton version; I like Dolly alright, but that song makes my head hurt. I must have insulted both it and the person who picked it out, no worries; I gave as well as I received. I think. So here I was, lying in a ditch, covered in dirt, and feeling like a nine pound hammer had been used on my head. I had my duffel bag; I packed light this time around. Just a few changes of clothes, a book by Mr. Gibran, and a notebook to write in. I had money in the bank and some cash on me. I had a story someone wrote about me in my back pocket, smudged and well read. I had a picture of me holding a picture of a girl holding a picture of me. I finished my smoke, spit out some blood, and wished there was somewhere to grab some coffee. I started walking, maybe someone would pick me up, Lord knows I had picked plenty of lost folks up.
I figure I walked ten miles before someone slowed down, they didn't stop. I wonder what I looked like to them; skinny, clothes that didn't fit, blood on my shirt, and a scowl on my face. Oh well, no sense in trying to be a Calvin Klein model now. I wish I had some music. I see a road sign up ahead; don't pay attention to the names or the numbers. I just sit my bag down and lean against in. When I looked down at my hands they didn't seem familiar, didn't even feel like mine; the wind was picking up and the dust hit me in my eyes, blinded me for a moment. When the debris cleared I noticed a car had stopped, it was an old Ford Fairlane, black and white, top down. I got a weird sense of déjà vu, but my feet were hurting, and not in a metaphorical sense. The man beckoned for me to come to the car, and I went slow, I walked it. He looked at me through a pair of cheap sunglasses, and asked me where I was going; I looked at him like he was daft, he raised an eyebrow and smiled, sideways. I just laughed and got in, he shrugged at me, and I told him to follow the dust. A half mile or so to the left of us a train with five engines rolled in the opposite direction; it's whistle made a low mournful sound. He asked me my name and I told him, when I asked for the same, he replied most folks call me Thadd, short for Thaddeus. I shook his hand and notice the ring he wore; three spiders, low profile, and in dark colors; green, black, and brown. I asked him how sainthood was treating him and he smirked and told me it was burdensome. We continued talking for a bit, but then a song came on; it was Johnny Cash singing about gamblers and ramblers. He told me to hush for a minute, said it in a nice way; almost sounded Southern. I asked if he cared if I smoked, and he said of course not, he used to be a smoker himself, and understood the vice like grip it could have on a man. The song ended and we turned back to talking, the miles rolled by. We talked about where we were from, I told him Tennessee, but that I had lived in a few different places, and had visited a lot more. He had been to Houston, spent a little time in Missouri, and had even made a few layovers in Tennessee as well. The places were the same, but the years were different. He was older, but not by more than a decade.
I asked him which place he had liked the most and he named the one I called home, even when I wasn't there. He said Southern girls were the best, they always made him feel alright. They were warmer, kinder, and the way they talked; he said it made him want to go to church on Sunday morning, and stay for fellowship afterwards. I asked him if he loved those women so much what was he doing in the middle of Wyoming, picking up skinny strangers. He looked over at me and raised his sunglasses up, one eye was gone, white as a picket fence in a story Mark Twain told. He looked back at the road, and he said he left that sweet state a long, long time ago. He left to go look for a woman whose long hair blew in the wind as she rode a Harley Davidson on a desert highway; an unknown legend. He continued on and told me he was looking for some Sunshine too, the Blue Skies kind.
I thought about something profound to say, be a smart guy. I told him that blue skies, sunshine, and a woman on a motorcycle with long blonde hair sounded like a good start. He said it was, but he also had to find Jolene. Jolene, who the **** is Jolene? He shrugged, looked over again and told me he had no clue, all he had found was me. He asked me what I was looking for, since we were being all into everyone's personal business. I told him I was looking for a woman too, well a couple, but not at the same time. He asked what the hell I was talking about so I gave him cryptic answers. I told him I had started out looking for Kate, and then found myself looking for a woman named Loreley. He asked who I found; I told him I found Jolene. He slammed the brakes down, I felt old Ford dashboard coming towards my face, not my face for Pete's sake! He put his hand on my chest and I stopped like I was stuck in a spider's web. He asked me where I had found Jolene. I told him she was everywhere, all over the place. That one hazel-green eye was looking at me like I was about to find myself back in a ditch. I told him Jolene was in St. Louis, Houston, Tennessee, and a dozen more places. He asked me what she looked like, and I told him that contrary to the song she wasn't a red head, she had brown hair, and she had blonde, she had a dark complexion sometimes, and pale other times. Then he asked me who Jolene was, and I replied with the same thing I had before, I don't know who the hell Jolene is. All I know is she reminds some one of a lot of people, but she really ain't nobody. He looked over at me and pointed to the crossroads in front of us; told me that it didn't matter which road I tool, it all went to the same place eventually. Just don't stumble he said. I got out of the car and grabbed my bag. He asked me for a smoke, and I gave him one. He told me if I ran across a blonde on a Harley to hide quick, but if I saw some Sunshine to tell it to come shed some light on him. I started to ask what I should do if I saw Jolene again, but Norah Jones came over the radio singing about playing with fire and paying the bills; he turned the radio up, smiled and gave me a wink, you only need one good eye to do that.
I looked at the four roads in front of me, one was back the way I had just been, one was straight ahead, and you never take that one. What remained were the right and the left. There were train tracks on the right, and I saw some buttercups on the left. Left it is then. I pulled my black and white tennis shoes off and shook a bit of gravel out of them, and headed towards the buttercups, almost stopped to pick one, but decided against it. I walked for hours, the road was straight and flat, but a hill was coming up, and I wasn't in the mood for a climb tonite. There were a few willow trees and a nice looking little pond off to the side of the road, just a few hundred yards away.
It looked like a nice spot to spend the night. I needed to find some kindling and build a fire; I had given my coat to a girl from Spokane that I met a week back. She was sitting in a diner, and looked cold. I bought us some lunch, asked her if her name was Jolene by chance. She looked up and smiled, said it was and how in the world did I know? I told her it just made sense is all. I asked her where she was headed, and she told me no where in particular; just anywhere I can find a place to be. She shivered a bit when someone opened the door, it wasn't that cold really, but I gave her my coat, told her good luck, and walked back outside.
As I approached the pond and those world weary looking willow trees, I noticed there was a man sitting there, old and gray. He had a nice fire going and was preparing a few catfish to cook. The amount of fish there and the size of the old man didn't match up; it was like he was expecting company. He turned around to look at me, well he was blind as a drunk on a winery tour, but he turned around regardless. His beard reached the ground, as he sat cross legged on the grass. He smiled and the wrinkles bunched up around his mouth. He wasn't wearing shoes, and the jeans he had on were faded and comfortable looking, he was wearing an olive green shirt, you could make out a patch of color over where his heart would be, the only thing left was a faded red J and an apostrophe a little further down. His hands looked familiar and he held a hammer in his left hand. He held it like he just wanted something to hold onto. I noticed a ragged, yellowed letter sticking out of his back pocket and what looked like the bent edge of an old black and white photograph. He waved me over, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and warm, but strong. He sounded like Karo syrup and butter being soaked up with a hot home made biscuit. He told me to have a sit down, rest my legs for awhile. He asked my name and I told him, he reached for my hand and I noticed a tattoo on his left arm, Muse it said in Roman style letters, black and bold. I shook his hand and delighted in the grip he had. His fingers were skinny, and his hands looked dry. When I asked him his name he told me that he had forgotten years ago, but he called himself Ishmael now, and so did anyone else who happened by. I asked if he meant the biblical man, or the one who hunted white whales with a captain named Ahab. He said, they are one and same, and so am I. He didn't look wicked or repentant to me. I asked him if it was November and raining in his soul, or if he had found himself stopping by funeral parlors a little too often. He smiled, told me I was a clever, tricky young man. I looked out at the little pond, and told him that this was a damned poor excuse for an ocean. He grinned and mentioned something about metaphors, and hyperbole.
We ate the fish and as the sun set I noticed a few butterflies swimming in the air around me, nice colors to them. He pulled out a harmonica and asked if I had a request, I told him to do a nice Southern Baptist benediction hymn. He played my favorite, "Just as I am", and I hummed along with him as he turned syrup into saving grace. I was asleep before I realized it, and the last thing I remember of the night was the growl of a motorcycle coming from the north, it sounded like a pale horse in the night. Thunder boomed off in the distance, but if it ever rained it didn't rain on us. I woke up the next morning and he had some bacon cooking, where the hell did he get bacon? We talked a bit and I asked him what he was doing out here, all alone and in his own dark. He pointed out across the pond, and told me that somewhere out there was a fish, big and white. He said it had something of his in it's over full belly, a circle, a simple thing really, but something he had lost many years before and had to get back. He told me he had named the fish Jolene a dozen years ago right before he lost his second eye. He said before he had lost that band he had lived out of a suitcase for way too long, and had lost the thing he carried the hammer instead of; I asked him if he would be okay by himself as I needed to be on my way. He said he would just sit in the Sunshine and stay out of the noise for awhile. I told him when he finally found Jolene to tell her a lot of folks were talking about her; he looked up and said; she has a way of stealing folks away. I patted him on his shoulders, they were strong for an old man, and told him to be safe. He just whispered something about as long as he could see the light he would be fine.
I started back to walking and felt a lot better after the nights rest. The air was crisp and it was a clear day. I managed to walk till noon according to the sun beating down on my head, and as I sat down to take a break an older mustang pulled up, big contrast to the lines of the Fairlane, but black and white just the same. I walked up to the car and looked in the window; I got a surprise when I saw that short, fun sized beauty sitting there. She was about my age, maybe a little younger. Her hair reflected every bit of light there was, looked like Kentucky coal. She told me to get in; she didn't need all this in her life right now. I didn't argue, just threw my bag into the back seat, next to a gnome holding a bottle of Jamison's, it wasn't a real gnome, but I swear it winked at me. The radio was playing "Over the Rainbow', but it had a Hawaiian beat to it. We played the same game I had played twice before in as many days. I told her my name, and she told me hers was Polly, named after a woman who was the muse of hymns and eloquence, but some folks called her Sunshine; and depending on the day some folks called her Stormy. She offered me a chicken sandwich, said it was crispy and had some bacon on it. I asked her if she got the bacon from Ishmael, and she gave me a surprised look. I took the sandwich and started to remove the tomato, but she told me to leave it on, it made it all taste better; beggars can't be choosey and all that. As I ate I noticed she had a list lying next to her in the seat; 50 things it was titled. A lot were crossed out, but there were a few left. She asked me where I was headed and I told her Boise I think; you can't get to Boise through here she told me. I cussed under my breath, and she told me it didn't matter, I'd get where ever I was headed eventually. I asked her what she was doing out here in the middle of nowhere, and she told me she was looking for a hand me down, and Jolene. Who the hell is Jolene I asked a little too loudly. This woman named for a muse looked up the road and said, Jolene rides a Harley up and down this road looking for a man named Thadd. I cussed again, and told her Thadd was the one who said I could get to Boise this way; and if Jolene is the one on the Harley how come he don't know who she is? She told me Thadd never could see past the next thirty minutes, and every road always leads to where ever he wants it to. Well he told me to watch out for the blonde on the bike, but he also said if I saw some Sunshine to tell it her to shed some light on him. Thadd is crazy she said to me, too many Sirens in his head, most of them running too fast in the wrong direction. I asked her why she was looking for Thadd if he was so crazy, and she replied that she wasn't looking for Thadd, she knew where he was, she was looking for Jolene. I was starting to think I was in the middle of some story written at two in the morning and totally devoid of quotation marks.
Eric Clapton came over the radio singing, "Wonderful Tonight", and she sang along. I sat and looked at the daughter of a man who must have played "Maple Leaf Rag" and watched MASH, it just fit in with the rest of the folks I had met. I noticed a little church in the distance and she slowed down, told me it was time for her to let me out, she had to go look for Jolene under the steeple. I told her I had no idea where I was or where I had to go to get there. She pointed at the road and asked me if I saw another one somewhere; well I don't guess I can argue with that. She looked at me and said Kate is no good, remember she might be the devil. She might take you to France though, or Spain and she might ask you to dance.
I walked away from Stormy, or Sunshine; I didn't know which day it was anymore. I don't think I am one mile closer to Boise than I was three days ago. I thought about things for a minute; Thadd was looking for Sunshine, a woman on a Harley and Jolene, turns out the blonde and Jolene are the same according to Sunshine; the same Sunshine who says she knows exactly where Thadd is, and she is looking for Jolene as well. Then there was Ishmael, who was looking for a fish, named Jolene; imagine that.
I looked at the sun and decided to take one of the many singular options I had in front of me as far as roads were concerned. I looked back one more time and noticed an old Harley headed towards the church, a black cloud loomed over the steeple, and the shadow it cast was long and somber. Ishmael was sitting on the back of the Harley, and as they headed up the gravel road towards where Stormy was waiting, I saw Thadd and his old Fairlane coming around the bend from ahead of me. The sunglasses were pulled down tight on his face, and he gave me a short wave as he drove by, I heard Dylan coming from inside the car; he was singing about most of the time. It looked like a meeting of old friends, and foes alike. I decided to be on my way before I witnessed something no one would ever believe. I was sure the battle, the fellowship; would be full of imagery, allusion and metaphor.
I walked on, slow and straight ahead. I spent that day alone with myself; it was getting way too damn crowded in here. A few minutes walk up the road I saw a sign, as I got closer I could make out the words, "Welcome to Boise". A thousand miles from nowhere would have been an appropriate song to be playing right now. I made my way into town looking for a dark bar, something hazy with smoke and smelling of spilled beer. I saw a sign hanging from an awning, it was missing most of its letters, but just like Ishmael's shirt I could make out a J and an apostrophe. I opened the door and was greeted with exactly what I had hoped for. There weren't many people in the old beer joint, and there was only one thirty something year old guy at the bar. I sat down a few places over from him and watched him chew his pen as he did the crossword puzzle. He was drinking tea, and had sweet and low packages strewn everywhere. The ashtray was full of Camels and Marlboro's, it needed to be emptied. The only other thing on the counter was a bottle of hot sauce with nothing for it to be splashed on. He looked over at me with a tired look and said hello to me; I replied back and nodded my head. He needed a shave, and looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. I could see the faded scars on his face; he had a couple there; one over his right eye, and one close to his nose. The one on the eyebrow was easy to see, but the one on his face proper was faded, it looked old and hardly remembered. His hands were full of them as well. His knuckles looked like they had been through hell. Nice enough looking fellow, but he was tired. He sighed, grabbed his head in both hands and rubbed his short hair a bit, gripped his head hard like he was afraid he was going to lose it. I asked him what the bartender's name was and he started to say something, but then hesitated as Neil Young started singing by way of the Jukebox, "She used to work in a diner. Never saw a woman look finer. I used to order just to watch her float across the floor", he looked straight at me and said her name is Jolene. At the sound of her name, this Jolene turned around and looked at the two of us. She was like some dream made of oil based paint that was applied much too thickly; and left out in the heat. I couldn't see past the depth of it, her hair changed from blonde to brown, to black and then back again. She was vanilla European one second then the licorice flavor of African, the cinnamon smell of Indian and the deep mocha color of South America the next. Her eyes changed with the rest of her, they didn't always match the rest of the picture. Jolene was every one and no one all at once. She looked like damnation, in a cold sort of way. The man next to me looked at her, shook his head, and pulled some cash out of his pocket. Don't let them pull you down son he said to me. He shook my hand and told me he had to get gone, it was a long walk back to Tennessee. I started to say something about Fairlanes and Harleys, but he was in the wind, slipped out somehow.
This Claymation like barmaid asked me what I was having, and I told her I would take some tea. She poured me a White Russian – tall. I thought about drinking it anyway, but then noticed the margin of the paper that the ghost, nothing else could slip away like that, had pushed towards me as he left. He had written something in that margin, "she ain't ever got a flower in her hair, no matter how many times she changes, there is never a flower". I looked up and sure enough there was not one single flower to be seen; she motioned towards the drink and told me to have a taste.
I shook my head and apologized, I got to get gone myself I told her. I shook off the dream and walked outside; there was that Fairlane, with the top down. Sitting up front with Thadd was Ishmael, and in the back seat behind Thadd was the ghost. He smiled when he saw me, and patted the seat next to him. I climbed in and Thadd took off headed towards the south with a little bit of east in it. I looked over at the ghost and as seemed to be proper asked what his name was; some folks call me Sisyphus he replied. I looked around and asked him where his rock was. I pushed that son-of-a-bitch off the other side of the mountain he answered. I laughed a little and told him I was Kevin, but some folks called me KB. He shook my hand and asked what the tattoo on my left arm said, I pulled my short sleeve up a bit and showed him the whole of it. Totus Nostrum it said; I told him it was Latin for "all of us". He smiled a bit and looked in the rear view mirror as Thadd and old blind Ishmael looked back, both in a different way. He told me that he figured that was a better pseudonym than any of the others. We'll Toto he said, we sure as hell ain't in Kansas any more, but we'll pass through on our way home maybe. The radio was playing a song by a group that was sad in the fall; some guy wanted a bunch of different folks to hate him or some **** like that.
"Quotation marks are for suckers and editors"
~KB
The music I listened to is below, try some of them out you might like it, diversity is the spice of life after all.
A Thousand Miles From Nowhere - Dwight Yoakam
Jolene - Dolly Parton
Jolene - Ray Lamontagne
Cheap Sunglasses - ZZ Top
Gods Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash
Southern Girl - Amos Lee
Ain't No Sunshine - Otis Redding
Blue Skies - Willie Nelson
Unknown Legend - Neil Young
Heart of Mine - Norah jones
Crossroads - Eric Clapton
Catfish blues - Jimi Hendrix
Just As I Am - Johnny Cash
Long As I Can See The Light - Credence Clear Water Revival
Somewhere Over The Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
Stormy Monday - Eric Clapton
Hand Me Down - Matchbox 20
Does Anybody Hear Her - Casting Crowns
Wonderful Tonight - Eric Clapton
Maple Leaf Rag - Dave Van Ronk
Sylvia Plath - Ryan Adams
Most Of The Time - Bob Dylan
Tennessee - Aressted development
Going To California - Led Zeppelin
Get Gone - Fiona Apple
Hate Me - Blue October
This is rough, and I think I'll work on it some more, but wanted to put it up to remind me to do so. The soundtrack to the story is at the bottom. Google "first paragraph of Moby Dick", it will help with the story.
I am about a thousand miles from Boise, give or take a couple hundred. The sign reads Wyoming, and I have no idea what this little town is called. I just remember waking up drunk, laying face first in a ditch. I had blood on my shirt, and my lips. The two different locations were not tied together by some Salvador Dali like road map. The blood on my shirt wasn't mine, it belonged to some fool in the bar that was behind me, the sunshine making it hard to see it, or just hard to look at. The blood on my lips was from inside, somewhere deep. You ought to be in bed Doc. I had sold my car two days before; it had finally given up the ghost. Some guy in a wrecker offered to tow me town, but I told him I'd trade him the car for two hundred bucks and a ride. I got a hundred and thirty, a ride, a beer, and a ham sandwich. I also had a couch to sleep on. In the morning his son drove me to the next town over, and dropped me at this bar. It was the only place I could get a drink. I bought myself a couple packs of cigarettes and had that drink, or twelve. I managed to get myself into a scrap with a local, no idea what it was about. I just remember that damn song coming over the jukebox. Jolene, the Dolly Parton version; I like Dolly alright, but that song makes my head hurt. I must have insulted both it and the person who picked it out, no worries; I gave as well as I received. I think. So here I was, lying in a ditch, covered in dirt, and feeling like a nine pound hammer had been used on my head. I had my duffel bag; I packed light this time around. Just a few changes of clothes, a book by Mr. Gibran, and a notebook to write in. I had money in the bank and some cash on me. I had a story someone wrote about me in my back pocket, smudged and well read. I had a picture of me holding a picture of a girl holding a picture of me. I finished my smoke, spit out some blood, and wished there was somewhere to grab some coffee. I started walking, maybe someone would pick me up, Lord knows I had picked plenty of lost folks up.
I figure I walked ten miles before someone slowed down, they didn't stop. I wonder what I looked like to them; skinny, clothes that didn't fit, blood on my shirt, and a scowl on my face. Oh well, no sense in trying to be a Calvin Klein model now. I wish I had some music. I see a road sign up ahead; don't pay attention to the names or the numbers. I just sit my bag down and lean against in. When I looked down at my hands they didn't seem familiar, didn't even feel like mine; the wind was picking up and the dust hit me in my eyes, blinded me for a moment. When the debris cleared I noticed a car had stopped, it was an old Ford Fairlane, black and white, top down. I got a weird sense of déjà vu, but my feet were hurting, and not in a metaphorical sense. The man beckoned for me to come to the car, and I went slow, I walked it. He looked at me through a pair of cheap sunglasses, and asked me where I was going; I looked at him like he was daft, he raised an eyebrow and smiled, sideways. I just laughed and got in, he shrugged at me, and I told him to follow the dust. A half mile or so to the left of us a train with five engines rolled in the opposite direction; it's whistle made a low mournful sound. He asked me my name and I told him, when I asked for the same, he replied most folks call me Thadd, short for Thaddeus. I shook his hand and notice the ring he wore; three spiders, low profile, and in dark colors; green, black, and brown. I asked him how sainthood was treating him and he smirked and told me it was burdensome. We continued talking for a bit, but then a song came on; it was Johnny Cash singing about gamblers and ramblers. He told me to hush for a minute, said it in a nice way; almost sounded Southern. I asked if he cared if I smoked, and he said of course not, he used to be a smoker himself, and understood the vice like grip it could have on a man. The song ended and we turned back to talking, the miles rolled by. We talked about where we were from, I told him Tennessee, but that I had lived in a few different places, and had visited a lot more. He had been to Houston, spent a little time in Missouri, and had even made a few layovers in Tennessee as well. The places were the same, but the years were different. He was older, but not by more than a decade.
I asked him which place he had liked the most and he named the one I called home, even when I wasn't there. He said Southern girls were the best, they always made him feel alright. They were warmer, kinder, and the way they talked; he said it made him want to go to church on Sunday morning, and stay for fellowship afterwards. I asked him if he loved those women so much what was he doing in the middle of Wyoming, picking up skinny strangers. He looked over at me and raised his sunglasses up, one eye was gone, white as a picket fence in a story Mark Twain told. He looked back at the road, and he said he left that sweet state a long, long time ago. He left to go look for a woman whose long hair blew in the wind as she rode a Harley Davidson on a desert highway; an unknown legend. He continued on and told me he was looking for some Sunshine too, the Blue Skies kind.
I thought about something profound to say, be a smart guy. I told him that blue skies, sunshine, and a woman on a motorcycle with long blonde hair sounded like a good start. He said it was, but he also had to find Jolene. Jolene, who the **** is Jolene? He shrugged, looked over again and told me he had no clue, all he had found was me. He asked me what I was looking for, since we were being all into everyone's personal business. I told him I was looking for a woman too, well a couple, but not at the same time. He asked what the hell I was talking about so I gave him cryptic answers. I told him I had started out looking for Kate, and then found myself looking for a woman named Loreley. He asked who I found; I told him I found Jolene. He slammed the brakes down, I felt old Ford dashboard coming towards my face, not my face for Pete's sake! He put his hand on my chest and I stopped like I was stuck in a spider's web. He asked me where I had found Jolene. I told him she was everywhere, all over the place. That one hazel-green eye was looking at me like I was about to find myself back in a ditch. I told him Jolene was in St. Louis, Houston, Tennessee, and a dozen more places. He asked me what she looked like, and I told him that contrary to the song she wasn't a red head, she had brown hair, and she had blonde, she had a dark complexion sometimes, and pale other times. Then he asked me who Jolene was, and I replied with the same thing I had before, I don't know who the hell Jolene is. All I know is she reminds some one of a lot of people, but she really ain't nobody. He looked over at me and pointed to the crossroads in front of us; told me that it didn't matter which road I tool, it all went to the same place eventually. Just don't stumble he said. I got out of the car and grabbed my bag. He asked me for a smoke, and I gave him one. He told me if I ran across a blonde on a Harley to hide quick, but if I saw some Sunshine to tell it to come shed some light on him. I started to ask what I should do if I saw Jolene again, but Norah Jones came over the radio singing about playing with fire and paying the bills; he turned the radio up, smiled and gave me a wink, you only need one good eye to do that.
I looked at the four roads in front of me, one was back the way I had just been, one was straight ahead, and you never take that one. What remained were the right and the left. There were train tracks on the right, and I saw some buttercups on the left. Left it is then. I pulled my black and white tennis shoes off and shook a bit of gravel out of them, and headed towards the buttercups, almost stopped to pick one, but decided against it. I walked for hours, the road was straight and flat, but a hill was coming up, and I wasn't in the mood for a climb tonite. There were a few willow trees and a nice looking little pond off to the side of the road, just a few hundred yards away.
It looked like a nice spot to spend the night. I needed to find some kindling and build a fire; I had given my coat to a girl from Spokane that I met a week back. She was sitting in a diner, and looked cold. I bought us some lunch, asked her if her name was Jolene by chance. She looked up and smiled, said it was and how in the world did I know? I told her it just made sense is all. I asked her where she was headed, and she told me no where in particular; just anywhere I can find a place to be. She shivered a bit when someone opened the door, it wasn't that cold really, but I gave her my coat, told her good luck, and walked back outside.
As I approached the pond and those world weary looking willow trees, I noticed there was a man sitting there, old and gray. He had a nice fire going and was preparing a few catfish to cook. The amount of fish there and the size of the old man didn't match up; it was like he was expecting company. He turned around to look at me, well he was blind as a drunk on a winery tour, but he turned around regardless. His beard reached the ground, as he sat cross legged on the grass. He smiled and the wrinkles bunched up around his mouth. He wasn't wearing shoes, and the jeans he had on were faded and comfortable looking, he was wearing an olive green shirt, you could make out a patch of color over where his heart would be, the only thing left was a faded red J and an apostrophe a little further down. His hands looked familiar and he held a hammer in his left hand. He held it like he just wanted something to hold onto. I noticed a ragged, yellowed letter sticking out of his back pocket and what looked like the bent edge of an old black and white photograph. He waved me over, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and warm, but strong. He sounded like Karo syrup and butter being soaked up with a hot home made biscuit. He told me to have a sit down, rest my legs for awhile. He asked my name and I told him, he reached for my hand and I noticed a tattoo on his left arm, Muse it said in Roman style letters, black and bold. I shook his hand and delighted in the grip he had. His fingers were skinny, and his hands looked dry. When I asked him his name he told me that he had forgotten years ago, but he called himself Ishmael now, and so did anyone else who happened by. I asked if he meant the biblical man, or the one who hunted white whales with a captain named Ahab. He said, they are one and same, and so am I. He didn't look wicked or repentant to me. I asked him if it was November and raining in his soul, or if he had found himself stopping by funeral parlors a little too often. He smiled, told me I was a clever, tricky young man. I looked out at the little pond, and told him that this was a damned poor excuse for an ocean. He grinned and mentioned something about metaphors, and hyperbole.
We ate the fish and as the sun set I noticed a few butterflies swimming in the air around me, nice colors to them. He pulled out a harmonica and asked if I had a request, I told him to do a nice Southern Baptist benediction hymn. He played my favorite, "Just as I am", and I hummed along with him as he turned syrup into saving grace. I was asleep before I realized it, and the last thing I remember of the night was the growl of a motorcycle coming from the north, it sounded like a pale horse in the night. Thunder boomed off in the distance, but if it ever rained it didn't rain on us. I woke up the next morning and he had some bacon cooking, where the hell did he get bacon? We talked a bit and I asked him what he was doing out here, all alone and in his own dark. He pointed out across the pond, and told me that somewhere out there was a fish, big and white. He said it had something of his in it's over full belly, a circle, a simple thing really, but something he had lost many years before and had to get back. He told me he had named the fish Jolene a dozen years ago right before he lost his second eye. He said before he had lost that band he had lived out of a suitcase for way too long, and had lost the thing he carried the hammer instead of; I asked him if he would be okay by himself as I needed to be on my way. He said he would just sit in the Sunshine and stay out of the noise for awhile. I told him when he finally found Jolene to tell her a lot of folks were talking about her; he looked up and said; she has a way of stealing folks away. I patted him on his shoulders, they were strong for an old man, and told him to be safe. He just whispered something about as long as he could see the light he would be fine.
I started back to walking and felt a lot better after the nights rest. The air was crisp and it was a clear day. I managed to walk till noon according to the sun beating down on my head, and as I sat down to take a break an older mustang pulled up, big contrast to the lines of the Fairlane, but black and white just the same. I walked up to the car and looked in the window; I got a surprise when I saw that short, fun sized beauty sitting there. She was about my age, maybe a little younger. Her hair reflected every bit of light there was, looked like Kentucky coal. She told me to get in; she didn't need all this in her life right now. I didn't argue, just threw my bag into the back seat, next to a gnome holding a bottle of Jamison's, it wasn't a real gnome, but I swear it winked at me. The radio was playing "Over the Rainbow', but it had a Hawaiian beat to it. We played the same game I had played twice before in as many days. I told her my name, and she told me hers was Polly, named after a woman who was the muse of hymns and eloquence, but some folks called her Sunshine; and depending on the day some folks called her Stormy. She offered me a chicken sandwich, said it was crispy and had some bacon on it. I asked her if she got the bacon from Ishmael, and she gave me a surprised look. I took the sandwich and started to remove the tomato, but she told me to leave it on, it made it all taste better; beggars can't be choosey and all that. As I ate I noticed she had a list lying next to her in the seat; 50 things it was titled. A lot were crossed out, but there were a few left. She asked me where I was headed and I told her Boise I think; you can't get to Boise through here she told me. I cussed under my breath, and she told me it didn't matter, I'd get where ever I was headed eventually. I asked her what she was doing out here in the middle of nowhere, and she told me she was looking for a hand me down, and Jolene. Who the hell is Jolene I asked a little too loudly. This woman named for a muse looked up the road and said, Jolene rides a Harley up and down this road looking for a man named Thadd. I cussed again, and told her Thadd was the one who said I could get to Boise this way; and if Jolene is the one on the Harley how come he don't know who she is? She told me Thadd never could see past the next thirty minutes, and every road always leads to where ever he wants it to. Well he told me to watch out for the blonde on the bike, but he also said if I saw some Sunshine to tell it her to shed some light on him. Thadd is crazy she said to me, too many Sirens in his head, most of them running too fast in the wrong direction. I asked her why she was looking for Thadd if he was so crazy, and she replied that she wasn't looking for Thadd, she knew where he was, she was looking for Jolene. I was starting to think I was in the middle of some story written at two in the morning and totally devoid of quotation marks.
Eric Clapton came over the radio singing, "Wonderful Tonight", and she sang along. I sat and looked at the daughter of a man who must have played "Maple Leaf Rag" and watched MASH, it just fit in with the rest of the folks I had met. I noticed a little church in the distance and she slowed down, told me it was time for her to let me out, she had to go look for Jolene under the steeple. I told her I had no idea where I was or where I had to go to get there. She pointed at the road and asked me if I saw another one somewhere; well I don't guess I can argue with that. She looked at me and said Kate is no good, remember she might be the devil. She might take you to France though, or Spain and she might ask you to dance.
I walked away from Stormy, or Sunshine; I didn't know which day it was anymore. I don't think I am one mile closer to Boise than I was three days ago. I thought about things for a minute; Thadd was looking for Sunshine, a woman on a Harley and Jolene, turns out the blonde and Jolene are the same according to Sunshine; the same Sunshine who says she knows exactly where Thadd is, and she is looking for Jolene as well. Then there was Ishmael, who was looking for a fish, named Jolene; imagine that.
I looked at the sun and decided to take one of the many singular options I had in front of me as far as roads were concerned. I looked back one more time and noticed an old Harley headed towards the church, a black cloud loomed over the steeple, and the shadow it cast was long and somber. Ishmael was sitting on the back of the Harley, and as they headed up the gravel road towards where Stormy was waiting, I saw Thadd and his old Fairlane coming around the bend from ahead of me. The sunglasses were pulled down tight on his face, and he gave me a short wave as he drove by, I heard Dylan coming from inside the car; he was singing about most of the time. It looked like a meeting of old friends, and foes alike. I decided to be on my way before I witnessed something no one would ever believe. I was sure the battle, the fellowship; would be full of imagery, allusion and metaphor.
I walked on, slow and straight ahead. I spent that day alone with myself; it was getting way too damn crowded in here. A few minutes walk up the road I saw a sign, as I got closer I could make out the words, "Welcome to Boise". A thousand miles from nowhere would have been an appropriate song to be playing right now. I made my way into town looking for a dark bar, something hazy with smoke and smelling of spilled beer. I saw a sign hanging from an awning, it was missing most of its letters, but just like Ishmael's shirt I could make out a J and an apostrophe. I opened the door and was greeted with exactly what I had hoped for. There weren't many people in the old beer joint, and there was only one thirty something year old guy at the bar. I sat down a few places over from him and watched him chew his pen as he did the crossword puzzle. He was drinking tea, and had sweet and low packages strewn everywhere. The ashtray was full of Camels and Marlboro's, it needed to be emptied. The only other thing on the counter was a bottle of hot sauce with nothing for it to be splashed on. He looked over at me with a tired look and said hello to me; I replied back and nodded my head. He needed a shave, and looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. I could see the faded scars on his face; he had a couple there; one over his right eye, and one close to his nose. The one on the eyebrow was easy to see, but the one on his face proper was faded, it looked old and hardly remembered. His hands were full of them as well. His knuckles looked like they had been through hell. Nice enough looking fellow, but he was tired. He sighed, grabbed his head in both hands and rubbed his short hair a bit, gripped his head hard like he was afraid he was going to lose it. I asked him what the bartender's name was and he started to say something, but then hesitated as Neil Young started singing by way of the Jukebox, "She used to work in a diner. Never saw a woman look finer. I used to order just to watch her float across the floor", he looked straight at me and said her name is Jolene. At the sound of her name, this Jolene turned around and looked at the two of us. She was like some dream made of oil based paint that was applied much too thickly; and left out in the heat. I couldn't see past the depth of it, her hair changed from blonde to brown, to black and then back again. She was vanilla European one second then the licorice flavor of African, the cinnamon smell of Indian and the deep mocha color of South America the next. Her eyes changed with the rest of her, they didn't always match the rest of the picture. Jolene was every one and no one all at once. She looked like damnation, in a cold sort of way. The man next to me looked at her, shook his head, and pulled some cash out of his pocket. Don't let them pull you down son he said to me. He shook my hand and told me he had to get gone, it was a long walk back to Tennessee. I started to say something about Fairlanes and Harleys, but he was in the wind, slipped out somehow.
This Claymation like barmaid asked me what I was having, and I told her I would take some tea. She poured me a White Russian – tall. I thought about drinking it anyway, but then noticed the margin of the paper that the ghost, nothing else could slip away like that, had pushed towards me as he left. He had written something in that margin, "she ain't ever got a flower in her hair, no matter how many times she changes, there is never a flower". I looked up and sure enough there was not one single flower to be seen; she motioned towards the drink and told me to have a taste.
I shook my head and apologized, I got to get gone myself I told her. I shook off the dream and walked outside; there was that Fairlane, with the top down. Sitting up front with Thadd was Ishmael, and in the back seat behind Thadd was the ghost. He smiled when he saw me, and patted the seat next to him. I climbed in and Thadd took off headed towards the south with a little bit of east in it. I looked over at the ghost and as seemed to be proper asked what his name was; some folks call me Sisyphus he replied. I looked around and asked him where his rock was. I pushed that son-of-a-bitch off the other side of the mountain he answered. I laughed a little and told him I was Kevin, but some folks called me KB. He shook my hand and asked what the tattoo on my left arm said, I pulled my short sleeve up a bit and showed him the whole of it. Totus Nostrum it said; I told him it was Latin for "all of us". He smiled a bit and looked in the rear view mirror as Thadd and old blind Ishmael looked back, both in a different way. He told me that he figured that was a better pseudonym than any of the others. We'll Toto he said, we sure as hell ain't in Kansas any more, but we'll pass through on our way home maybe. The radio was playing a song by a group that was sad in the fall; some guy wanted a bunch of different folks to hate him or some **** like that.
"Quotation marks are for suckers and editors"
~KB
The music I listened to is below, try some of them out you might like it, diversity is the spice of life after all.
A Thousand Miles From Nowhere - Dwight Yoakam
Jolene - Dolly Parton
Jolene - Ray Lamontagne
Cheap Sunglasses - ZZ Top
Gods Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash
Southern Girl - Amos Lee
Ain't No Sunshine - Otis Redding
Blue Skies - Willie Nelson
Unknown Legend - Neil Young
Heart of Mine - Norah jones
Crossroads - Eric Clapton
Catfish blues - Jimi Hendrix
Just As I Am - Johnny Cash
Long As I Can See The Light - Credence Clear Water Revival
Somewhere Over The Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
Stormy Monday - Eric Clapton
Hand Me Down - Matchbox 20
Does Anybody Hear Her - Casting Crowns
Wonderful Tonight - Eric Clapton
Maple Leaf Rag - Dave Van Ronk
Sylvia Plath - Ryan Adams
Most Of The Time - Bob Dylan
Tennessee - Aressted development
Going To California - Led Zeppelin
Get Gone - Fiona Apple
Hate Me - Blue October
Life ain't linear.
Jolene
Well done KB and I like your ecclectic taste in music.
�You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.�
• Mae West
• Mae West
Jolene
minks;637543 wrote: Well done KB and I like your ecclectic taste in music.
I have been blessed to have been friends and more with people who have a wonderful taste in a great variety of music. Story edited a tiny bit since this morning, added some details, took some out.
I have been blessed to have been friends and more with people who have a wonderful taste in a great variety of music. Story edited a tiny bit since this morning, added some details, took some out.
Life ain't linear.
Jolene
Is there a time limit on edits or something? I will change that story a lot over the next few weeks, and i don't want to keep reposting the whole thing. Here is my newest version of the ending, nothing new just more details. I have to thank Polly (read the story) for the help.
"I laid my head back against the seat and felt the sun shine down on my face. I had a feeling that the trip home was going to take a hell of a lot longer than the trip away had taken, but that was fine, slow walk it and all. Thadd asked if everyone was ready, and when we didn't say anything he nodded and started down the road. There were a pair of plush ruby slippers hanging from the mirror now, and they swung back and forth in a slow cadence; a new beat to follow. Ishmael reached over and turned the radio up, he turned the dial thorugh statiosn filled with static and pop, finally he came to rest on one with a commercial about a shop in town that sold handmade swingsets. When the commercial ended, a dusky Southern voice came over the speakers. It sounded like Polly, and when I asked if it was they all three replied; Thadd said thats Loreley, Ishmael told me it was Stormy. and Sisyphus mentioned Sunshine. I smiled and just said Polly again. She said she had received a request, "This is a request, a dedication from a world full of women calling themselves Jolene, and it goes out to four men in an old Ford. The song is Hate Me from Blue October, it is not our usual type of music, but it fits". Polly said a few more things, but I was just listening to the music, the words of it; I felt like a nap, but asked Thadd if he was okay to drive before I went to sleep. he told me he didn't sleep much, none of them did, and for me to go ahead and relax for a bit."
"I laid my head back against the seat and felt the sun shine down on my face. I had a feeling that the trip home was going to take a hell of a lot longer than the trip away had taken, but that was fine, slow walk it and all. Thadd asked if everyone was ready, and when we didn't say anything he nodded and started down the road. There were a pair of plush ruby slippers hanging from the mirror now, and they swung back and forth in a slow cadence; a new beat to follow. Ishmael reached over and turned the radio up, he turned the dial thorugh statiosn filled with static and pop, finally he came to rest on one with a commercial about a shop in town that sold handmade swingsets. When the commercial ended, a dusky Southern voice came over the speakers. It sounded like Polly, and when I asked if it was they all three replied; Thadd said thats Loreley, Ishmael told me it was Stormy. and Sisyphus mentioned Sunshine. I smiled and just said Polly again. She said she had received a request, "This is a request, a dedication from a world full of women calling themselves Jolene, and it goes out to four men in an old Ford. The song is Hate Me from Blue October, it is not our usual type of music, but it fits". Polly said a few more things, but I was just listening to the music, the words of it; I felt like a nap, but asked Thadd if he was okay to drive before I went to sleep. he told me he didn't sleep much, none of them did, and for me to go ahead and relax for a bit."
Life ain't linear.