Maggie's Farm

"I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.No, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.Well, I wake in the morning,Fold my hands and pray for rain.I got a head full of ideasThat are drivin' me insane.It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor.I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more.No, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more.Well, he hands you a nickel,He hands you a dime,He asks you with a grinIf you're havin' a good time,Then he fines you every time you slam the door.I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more.I ain't gonna work for Maggie's pa no more.No, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's pa no more.Well, he puts his cigarOut in your face just for kicks.His bedroom windowIt is made out of bricks.The National Guard stands around his door.Ah, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's pa no more.I ain't gonna work for Maggie's ma no more.No, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's ma no more.Well, she talks to all the servantsAbout man and God and law.Everybody saysShe's the brains behind pa.She's sixty-eight, but she says she's twenty-four.I ain't gonna work for Maggie's ma no more.I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.No, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.Well, I try my bestTo be just like I am,But everybody wants youTo be just like them.They sing while you slave and I just get bored.I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more."Bob DylanIn the moment of the setting sun, thoughts removed, I gaze without question. At best I’m completely absorbed into the tranquilizing of the day into night. In witnessing bending limbs blowing in the breeze, I stand in awe absent in any attempt to ask what shall be made of this. A tree does not really have a meaning. You might say, it is the meaning itself. It’s not a symbol for something else. When my love smiles, void are thoughts of interpretation, I’m all eyes and ears, with no need for explanation. And in the same way for me these great pieces of music are generally just taken for themselves so. The vast majority of the time I am not concerned about the origins, history, meaning or even quality. It’s just not my nature to be an art critic. When I see a painting or expose myself to a performance, I am as thoughtless as can be. It affects me without analyses. And what comes of it, just happens without consideration. You know, in a since I just try to get out of my way, and even that is doing too much. Listening and standing in a silent motion washed in honesty I become a witness to connections, to resonance, of messages, revealing to me the moment in the story to which I belong. And what I post reflects this. You might call it the sound track of the conversation between my love and myself, weather my love be my woman or life itself. Aboriginalien,