Chronicles - Bob Dylan [81]
Later on, we rode south towards Houma. On the west side of the road there’s cattle grazing and egrets, herons with slender legs standing in shallow bays — pelicans, houseboats, roadside fishing — oyster boats, small mud boats — steps that lead to small piers running out into the water. We kept rolling on, started crossing different kinds of bridges, some swinging, some lifting. On Stevensonville Road we crossed a canal bridge by a little country store and the road turned to gravel and began to wind treacherously through the swamps. The air smelled foul. Still water — humid air, rank and rotten. Kept riding south until we saw oil rigs and supply boats, then turned around and headed again towards Thibodaux. Thibodaux was neither here nor there and my mind started thinking opposites. Thinking about maybe going up to the Yukon country, someplace where we could really bundle up. By dusk we’d found a place to stay outside of Napoleonville. We pulled in for the night and I shut the bike down. It was a nice ride.
We stayed at a bed-and-breakfast cottage that was behind a pillared plantation house with sculpted studded garden paths, a cream stucco bungalow that had a certain charm — stood like a miniature Greek temple. The room had a four poster comfortable bed and an antique table — the rest, camp style furnishings, and it came with a kitchenette equipped with utensils, but we didn’t eat there. I laid down, listened to the crickets and wildlife out the window in the eerie blackness. I liked the night. Things grow at night. My imagination is available to me at night. All my preconceptions of things go away. Sometimes you could be looking for heaven in the wrong places. Sometimes it could be under your feet. Or in your bed.
Next day I woke up, felt like I had figured something out, why I wasn’t feeling right about the recording sessions. Here’s the thing — I wasn’t looking to express myself in any kind of new way. All my ways were intact and had been for years. There wasn’t much chance in changing now. I didn’t need to climb the next mountain. If anything, what I wanted to do was to secure the place where I was at. I wasn’t sure Lanois understood that. I guess I never made it plain, couldn’t put it in so many words.
It had been raining off and on all night and now rain was sprinkling again. It was late morning when we left the motel. A nipping wind hit me in the face, but it was a beautiful day. The sky was dull gray. We climbed back on the blue Harley and rode down around Lake Verret, riding on high trails, cruising by twisted giant oaks, pecan trees — vines and cypress stumps down in the swamps. Got down almost as far as Amelia and then headed back — stopped at a gas station off Route 90 near Raceland. Across a vacant field stood an obscure roadside place, a gaunt shack called King Tut’s Museum and it caught my eye. After filling the gas tank, we rode slowly across the cow path to the side of the shack. It was wood framed, an overhanging porch with support beams that had long ago rotted away — pickup truck full of vegetables parked out front and a junked out ’50s Oldsmobile Golden Rocket up on blocks in the tall grass. A young girl was on the balcony beating the dust off a rug, dressed in pink gymnastic tights, had long black oiled ringlets and a bath towel around her shoulders. The dust hung like a red cloud in the air. We went up the short steps and I walked in. My wife stayed outside on a wooden swing bench.
The place sold trinkets, newspapers, sweets, handcraft items, baskets made of swamp cane that were woven in the area — elaborate patterns. There were figurines and sham jewels, some items in display cases, umbrellas, slippers, blue voodoo beads and votive candles. There were ironworks around the entryway, oak boughs — acorn motifs, a few bumper sticker signs. One said WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDPA. Another one said SILENCE.