The venue of the vision of the old man and the lake bears every hallmark of a white trash upbringing. A deep maroon Camaro with two fat white racing stripes up the middle, with a stereo that weighed approximately as much as the air conditioner, both of which were industrial strength and tended to be run at full blast. The soundtrack is Led Zeppelin. The mental environment is profoundly twisted by good local herb.
The explanation of the vision is thus: The lake is virtue, the old man is each and any one of us, the endless circling of the rowboat is the eternal cycle of Song, which has circled the globe, always returning to itself, since long before life ever walked crawled swum or oozed across this earth, picking up and singing its piece as it went. The child at his feet is the future, each of us giving birth at a rate of sixty seconds per hour. His psionic message is ever the message of the past:
Learn from me. Learn from me. Do not repeat where improvisation is required. Be born at my feet but do not remain trapped with me at the center of the cycle, swim into the spinning waters and be free.
klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.
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