Desolation row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong to Me I Believe"
And someone says," You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave"
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

I guess everyone who is on a mission should have a mission statement. Most corporations do, and most are crap. So, mine will probably be no different.

“Preserve me from boredom and keep me from straying too far from Desolation row.”

How’s that?
Now, obviously the questions to be begged are “What is my description of boredom?” and “What was Dylan’s Desolation row?”.
And I just know you’re gagging to find out.

Now, I know Yoda told me not to focus on myself, I remember how Sophie screamed that my problems were minute compared to other people’s problems and I accept Yossarian’s reasoning for there being no easy way out of it all.
But that’s where it all seems to strand. By focussing on what I’m doing, not right here and right now, but generally when I’m not doing what I’m doing right now (which is writing) I get bored.

And not only do I get bored when I’m not doing anything, I get bored watching people shop, listening to lover’s talking to each other (fuck, do they ever spout some shite) and watching football supporters get excited at a couple of millionaires running around a field, kicking a piece of cow about.

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outa Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Politics bore me.
This whole neo-liberal movement is weighing so heavily upon my mammary protruberances that I’m starting to look like a Pygmy.
The “Just sell everything ‘we’ own off to some wanker who’ll make millions out of creating a beaurocratic nightmare of it” attitude bores me.
Individualism my arse. We are all supposed to be nice little worker clones. That’s what they want and that’s what we do. Most of us that is.

I get bored being bored. I get even more bored by drinking to relieve myself from being bored of being bored. Hell, I’m so fucking bored sometimes that I wish I had a job to go to just to scream at some big-headed beaurocrat who thinks he’s a boss.

And so I guess life is just boring. All of life? No, obviously not.
There are some things which are not boring, they generally though, are expensive.
Sometimes I think that perhaps all I need to do is fall in love again and become one of the masses of people who no longer go out and party. Just stay at home, rub her feet and get my cock sucked once every month. Hoorah! It sounds like a fucking party to me!

Maybe boredom has to do with repetition?
Mhmmmm…Yes, repetition sounds about right.

Some people like repetition.
Some people like repetition.
Some people like repetition.

They fucking bore me too.

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go to
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Everyone knows you have to work to live. Everyone knows you have to be insured. Everyone knows…they know fuck all. FUCK ALL!
They’re living in the world that’s been created for them and if they dare to look any further than their front doors they get dragged back in by thought-police, family members and institutions. Institionalised fucking boredom.
This world that’s been created. This “get up and go out to make someone else rich”, bores me. I don’t want money. I don’t want a house. I don’t even want to watch the news anymore! It’s all so fucking boring.

If you don’t fit, you’re either insane or a criminal. So you’re either boring, mad or fucking dangerous. What great choices. What great lives we live. How creative we all still are.

And I am now on Dylan’s Desolation row. The place they don’t want you to be. The place that is dangerous because it is different.
It’s not better, it’s just different.
I’ll either die of boredom, die of drugs, die of drink or end up locked up. These are my choices and boy, do they ever look promising from where I’m standing right now!

And that’s why I’m going to find Robbie Howett. Not because it will make one bit of difference to anything in the universe or my grande finale from Desolation row, but it’s just something I haven’t done yet.
Now, I might find him, I might not. He might be a figment of my imagination. Hell, he could even be a projection of myself on the wall of time.

And that’s why my mission statement is so crap.
It could be Desolation row that’s boring me and that would make my statement a contradiction. And if Desolation row is not boring me, then the second part is just duplicating what the first part is saying… a tautology, if you will.

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

Yup. That was some heavy shit today!
Nope. My mood was not the finest.