my father listened to dylan.  i remember listening to desolation row with him in the old house.  nashville skyline is high school.  dylan never sounded weird to me.  not even self portrait.  what sticks with me about dylan is that he was always ready to change, to bust out and grow and not make excuses.  because were here to change and bust out and grow.  and he was able to communicate what he saw when he got there to a world of people that needed to hear that someone out there was busting.  had made it through the walls and the wire.  even his voice changed over time, even that had no constant cause the only constant is change, right?  hes always been a dandy even his early workshirts were clean and that mustache now.  he followed his heart down the road and it led him through his life authentic and extraordinary.  he never apologized or tried to explain.  because he knows that its not him thats important.  its the living.  the things we learn that we leave behind.  dylan has always been foxfire.  diggin his own trip no thought of keeping it to himself he turned the beatles on.

im a wordhead so he spoke to me, like springsteen would, knopfler.  i even loved to rub myself against the tolkien-crowley nods of plant-paige.  but for whatever reason dylans delivery won my heart.  and offered me the words to say squatting in a parking lot in front of a convenience store in new paltz to a splendid black haired irish boy to spring tears of joy and amazement, i keep that second of my life alive in my mind all this time.  pat and billy, as if dimaria flagrance, i remember you.  i listen to its all over now and tambourine man and visions of johanna and i think, its all there, man.  i went to see dont look back when it came to the arthouse.  i had boots of spanish leather and my mother threw them out.  dylan took the opportunity to be alive.  im ready to be alive now and i think of my whole life i wasted and then i remember some people never get to be alive at all.  

dylan is one of those vessels, channels i talk about.  the light just comes rushing through him.  and sometimes there was a mighty conflict in him, powers vying for airspace.  thats a fundamental conflict in us all, but in dylan it was of mythic proportions because he knew what he had there he knew what the powers wanted, the possibility that were all tempered for.
some of us sitting stacked in a velvet lined cedar box under the couch for good occasions and some of us hammered and holed and now were windchimes.  

standing at night at the white house the three of us and he gave me words to say that you would understand because they were words to a song youll never explain to me. to hear the last acts strung like tiny beads of words into something beautiful.  the songs are all hindsight and decline and looking back at us over his shoulder singing the travels, a map.  the heros journey.  blood on the tracks.    ramona is a woman i loved.  i realize my dylan albums are gone.  theyre cool to have, albums are such visually intense and tactile objects.  the ritual fragility we ascribe them to, theres an integrity there lacking in the world today.  everything is plastic now.  except books.

his hearts always been pure.  he took everything he was and gave it to the world.  simple twist of fate is a boy i knew since kindergarten whos a doctor now near ventura and a mango.  leopard skin pill box hat is buffalo.  youre gonna make me lonesome when you go is the woman who wont ever forgive me.  he wrote down what we wished we could say.  he burned it all down.  he didnt want to stand on anyones shoulders.  hollis brown is puppetman in the pearl street kitchen.  hard rain is a list of first lines.  

dylans a playwright with elaborate scenes, bard, poet, prophet, judas!  

he turned newport on.  catalyst.  a heart so pure the identities dont stick.

one day if were lucky we realize were listening.  that we understand more than its beautiful and deep.  like explaining the ocean.   dylan songs are lotus seeds.  decades later an awakening.

a fractal from which we all took something different which was really all the same.  

the finger pointing to the moon.  jewels and binoculars hanging from the head of a mule.

what songs have i loved?  boots of spanish leather, buckets of rain, baby can i follow you down, isis, abandoned love, visions of johanna, golden loom, seven days.  i fell madly in love with both nashville skyline and new morning.  its all over now baby blue, mr. tambourine man, winterlude.  angelina not farewell angelina which is my mother.  the basement tapes.  desire.

LAST THOUGHTS ON WOODY GUTHRIE

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"

And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine

And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign

And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm talking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking

But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming

And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over

You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked

You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve
But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills
"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows

No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of rnoney and chicks

And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AINT REAL"

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere

And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown


Bob Dylan

"give the anarchist a cigarette"