Things like marriages and mortgages (ink stains and rocks and ivy) can strain relationships over time because being with that person is no longer strictly voluntary. Both the author and Zhivago had commitments. The point is that they couldn't be together, not why. The reasons differ between a train hopping hobo (which the author was not but it was cool to be in the early 60s) and two seperated and cant find eachother because of the Russian Revolution, for why they couldn't be together. Zhivago, a poet who was in a committed relationship but longed for a woman from his past. As Hartman said, he wrote this after seeing Dr. She doesn't have to be real but I believe she is. believe that your thoughts are closest to the songs meaning the way I see it. And now Glen Campbell is fading away, having just released what he says is his last album, given his failing health (Alzheimers). But as somebody told me at the time, those of us that know him appreciate what he did, and that's enough. John Hartford died a few years ago, and I still think it's a crime that he got so little recognition for his musical contributions. When he was finished, she was in tears, and said it was the prettiest thing she had ever heard, or words to that effect. Someplace I read that, shortly after he first wrote it, a female friend visited them, and his wife suggested he play it for her. I can't see how they connect, but that's how things go. Hartford says he wrote it in about 15 minutes, after seeing the movie "Doctor Zhivago", which triggered some memories for him. It seems to be about a hippie and his one true love (wherever she is). It was written by John Hartford, one of the most amazing musicians this country has ever produced. That you're wavin' from the back roads by the rivers of my memories I pretend to hold you to my breast and find I still might run in silence, tears of joy might stain my faceĪnd the summer sun might burn me till I'm blindīut not to where I cannot see you walkin' on the back roadsīack from a gurglin', cracklin' cauldron in some train yardĪnd a dirty hat pulled low across my face Though the wheat fields and the coastlinesĪnd the junkyards and the highways come between usĪnd some other woman's cryin' to her mother That you're movin' on the back roads by the rivers of my memoryĪnd for hours you're just gentle on my mind When I walk along some railroad track and find It's just knowin' that the world will not be cursin' or forgivin' Planted on their columns now that bind meīecause they thought we fit together walkin' That keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory That makes me tend to leave my sleepin' bag rolled upĪnd it's knowin' I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bondsĪnd the ink stains that have dried upon some lines It's knowin' that your door is always open
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