It’s easy to become sure of something.  It’s merely a matter of repetition.  And then you’re so sure of it you become bored.  Bored and wanting change.  Until that illusion is shattered—what you were so sure of.  As you learn something new, as you learn something new about yourself, and the doubts of unknowns.  And then sometimes you want to change back.  You want to change back to what you once knew.  Like Johnny Tribout after Nina’s murder.  Why he began playing the Blues with David Threnody.  And talked to him.  Why Schultz began to whistle in that Mississippi prison.  And needed someone to talk him down.  Because the truth is you don’t want to change.  You just want to make your world what you are.

            And of course this could all be legend.  David’s visits to Mississippi.  The stories of what happened there.  The only records of that ride at the crossroads are from David’s journals, from stories he told friends.  And as for the war and what happened before the war—his recruitment in the Army and his time as a prison guard, well—that too could just be story, a story friends make up when asked about their history.  Embellishments over the years.  Because who ever heard of a Russian Colonel in the American Army before the war?  Later on, in later journal entries David recounts some of that time, some of it recorded here, and some to come later, in his memories after the war when he talks about Popovitch again.  He shares how Popovitch paid an immigration official to forge his family’s U.S. citizenship when he came to the country in 1917, using money from his betrayal at the Winter Palace.  This expedited by providing information to the State Department on his involvement with the overthrow of the Russian government and his contacts with the new Soviet regime.  How he played both sides.  His loyalties as a Cossack.  And who he knew from Red October, who he let in the door.  This information providing him a commission in the Army with paperwork in order.  Rising quickly through the ranks because of what he knew.  And David speculates on Nina’s death—how it was possible someone from the Russian secret police knew him, knew him from then, maybe even Cossack in origin.  And came to find him in Mississippi…  But a Russian base commander in Biloxi before the war?  A German POW named Schultz who played the drums?  They could just be stories passed around like a guitar.  There’s no history of a Popovitch being in Biloxi in 1941, nor are there really any records of David Threnody’s enlistment.  The only documents coming from war-time records.  Possibly because he was black.  As stated before, the officers and logistics offered to black soldiers before World War II were meager at best, as is the paper trail of their involvement.  Maybe he changed names.  Maybe he changed their names—Schultz and Popovitch.  Maybe some of it was true—what he was sure of, what he became sure of—later, writing it down.  And Johnny, and other people that knew him then—still alive or interviewed before their deaths—just went along with it, because even if it wasn’t true it was something true about him, it was a truth about David and his life, in how he possibly made it all up and how he told it, told it as stories behind his music, as something to say in that pause between his songs.

            And you know why you want change.  Why you want to make your world what you are.  It was why David learned something from Schultz, a Nazi, someone seemingly so different, and why he talked about him in his journals—you just want to be happy.  And in talking to Schultz David learned how what we want can be used for ugly things, in the story of Schultz’s family and how he grew up under the rising shadow of Hitler.  You just don’t want guilt.  You don’t want to feel guilty.  To make your world what you are, guilt is a part of it, and you can’t be happy feeling guilty.  That’s when you need something and you’ll listen to anyone promising they can offer it.  That’s when you need a scapegoat…