Waiting For A Simple Twist Of Fate

"It's been a dry spell."

"Yes, it has been. I don't know what to do about it. I don't feel like I'm turning into an empty husk, but I can't seem to get things going both here on this blog and in my private life. I feel sullen for some reason," I say. I'm waving my hands around trying to make a point.

There's a light rain as Mr. Gryphon and I walk along a waterfront dock. The night is heavy. The smell of the sea, the rancid smell of gutted fish fill the air. It's empty here, no sailors. The warm humidity and gentle rain thickens the atmosphere.

"It's been a long time Miss Turtle," he says with a sigh. We are not the same now, not after my last story "FailSafe." We've grown ever closer.

"I was going to wait until after I finished putting up the story but I've missed you and needed to have a chat," I say. I hear the strumming of a guitar, very comforting. We walk slowly past a young man wearing a linen button down shirt that sticks to his skin, a worn out hat, and threadbare trousers. Mr. Gryphon stops to drop a dollar into his money jar. The young man barely nods at him.

"You've made good progress on your novel," he says, standing up straight. He knows it's not the best thing to say now. I grit my teeth but only for a moment.

"Yes, I have. And that's all good. So many things I want to do but how do I decide what to do?" We are approaching the tired lights of the arcade after walking past a motel with bright neon signs. A few people, all grayed out by the rain and humidity, scuttle past us. They stare at Mr. Gryphon.

"Why am I so sullen lately? It's like I'm pouting over something," I push my hair back from my face, an old, constant habit. A young couple walks by, giggling. They hold hands and bump into each other as they walk along the sidewalk.

"You're good at pouting," is his only reply. I grit my teeth again but don't say anything. The worn out arcade is upon us now. It's a small place, two or three rooms. The lights from the games flash. A few people play, the lines on their bodies brought into sharp relief by the bright lights. Sounds of ringing bells, computerized beeping, snatches of sampled music, giggling, and talking float out of the entrance. I nod in the direction of the arcade. Mr. Gryphon shakes his head.

"Not in the mood for pinball?" He doesn't reply. "You know, you're becoming just like my bosses. I bring up things and make suggestions in email and they don't bother to reply."

"I'm not in the mood for pinball," he says, enunciating clearly. He opens his golden wings just a little, fluffing them as we walk away but he does not extend his claws. I keep looking at him but he does not look back.

"You're not being very friendly," I say. We are in a pull-push state. He's feeling closed off and I'm feeling, well, sullen.

"Your bosses are all engineers," he says, by way of explanation.

"I wish you'd open up a little, just a little," I blurt out. We're a block past the arcade and the rain has stopped. All around us is the drip-drip of water. Mr. Gryphon looks at me at last, his yellow eyes burning brightly. He says nothing but I've finally figured out what's going on with me. I take a deep breath feeling the sting of embarrassment.

"That's better, Miss Turtle. Much better," he says, nodding.

"Piss off," I say. I push up the sleeves of my shirt. The humidity is getting to me, sweat is running down my back in a trickle.

He smiles. We pass some sailors. Mr. Gryphon nods at them. We wait at the next block for the light to change. We hear the faraway sounds of a saxophone playing and I can see the gate ahead of us. A young man is coming in our direction. He has a parrot on his shoulder.

I nod at the young man when he gets closer to us. His parrot squawks a "Hello!" at Mr. Gryphon. He passes us by and I look back, watching him as he walks towards the docks.

"Think he'll find what he's looking for?" I ask.

"Most certainly."

I look at Mr. Gryphon, surprised. "You've become something of an optimist," I say.

"Yes, it's true, Miss Turtle. This is your world after all." I don't ask him to elaborate. We keep walking towards the gate. The rain has started up again.

Bob Dylan: The Collection

While surfing around one night I came across a press release that came out when Bob's album "Modern Times" was released. iTunes put together a digital collection of all of Bob's albums from his very first "Bob Dylan" through "Modern Times." In addition, you get 42 rare tracks. The albums include his studio albums, the entire bootleg series, greatest hits albums, all the live albums, plus a 100 page booklet. It's all digital, of course. The price? $200.00. The total number of tracks is 773 or 53 albums (over 3 gigs of music).

Some Bob fans aren't very happy because they already own most or all the albums and they're angry that iTunes isn't offering the 42 rare tracks as a separate bundle. Also, because of the greatest hits albums there are many duplicate recordings. Still, for all the disadvantages I have to admit that my eyes went cross-eyed when I went onto iTunes to check it out. Even accounting for duplications that's still a staggering amount of music. Because Bob's catalog of music is so vast I had to put together a list of 16 albums to start with but since I've only bought a handful of his albums so far getting this collection is perfect for someone like me who's just starting out.

Given my unemployed status I won't be buying this collection anytime soon but it's definitely something I'm planning to work towards. When I get this new collection I'm going to have to buy a new iPod something I'd been planning to do anyway.

Bob Dylan: Blonde on Blonde

"Blonde on Blonde" was released in May 1966 as a double album with 14 songs. Nine out of the fourteen songs are over four minutes long and many are seven plus minutes. "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" is the longest at over 11 minutes.

The album is characterized by the blues rock Bob started on "Highway 61 Revisited" and more surreal lyrics. It's a complete departure from Bob's folk music where he played his songs with just his acoustic guitar and harmonica.

The entire album is amazing but I only came to this conclusion after absorbing it for months. I was familiar with "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" with its "Everybody must get stoned!" refrain and "Just Like a Woman" from my junior high school and high school years of listening to rock music stations. The rest of the songs were all new to me.

Songs that blew me away at the first hearing:

• "Visions of Johanna" is clearly one of Bob's finest compositions, and possibly one of the finest songs written in my lifetime. I heard it while driving home late at night through my empty city streets, a perfect way to hear it for the first time. It's a quiet song with beautiful thought provoking lyrics like "But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues, you can tell by the way she smiles."
  
• "Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again" has an upbeat tempo and playful lyrics. The song tells very short stories of odd characters. The opening line is "Ah, the Ragman draws circles up and down the block. I'd ask him what the matter is, but I know that he don't talk."
  
• "Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine)" is a great break-up song with its jaunty melody and truthful lyrics ("Time will tell just who has fell and who's been left behind").
  
• "Temporary Like Achilles" has a languid piano melody that expresses longing with strange lyrics like "I watch upon your scorpion who crawls across your circus floor." Bob leaves no doubt about his feelings with the chorus "You know I want your lovin.' Honey, why are you so hard?"
  
• "Absolutely Sweet Marie" is a bouncy song with odd lyrics of a man waiting for a woman. It has images of railroads, white horses, and broken promises. My favorites are "To live outside the law you must be honest" and "Well, I don't know how it happened but the river-boat captain, he knows my fate. But everyone else, even yourself, are just going to have to wait." I don't know why but those last lines seem to sum up my current transitional situation perfectly.
  

Songs I didn't like at first:

• I had a tough time with "I Want You" because I felt the chorus "I want you, I want you, I want you so bad" was too simple and abrupt. The song has latched onto me after many listenings and I think "I Want You" is a glorious declaration of exuberant love. It's a beautiful song with lyrics like "The cracked bells and washed out horns, blow into my face with scorn, but it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you."
  
• "Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat" is a blues song with jarring guitar about an attractive young woman and her new hat with strange lyrics like "You know it balances your head just like a mattress balances on a bottle of wine." Once again Bob leaves nothing to the imagination with lines like "Well, you look so pretty in it, Honey, can I jump on it sometime?" Again, after listening to the song over and over I just love its energy and humor.

The other songs are great with "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" achieving epic status and not just because of its length. It is a gentle, steady stroll of a song that rises and falls like so many rolling hills Bob walks up and down on his journey though this song. Bob comes up with many surreal descriptions for his "Sad-Eyed Lady" while circling back around to meet her. The "Sad-Eyed Lady" is a reference to his wife at the time, Sara Lownds.

For me personally Bob's music requires that I pay attention and focus on the lyrics, meanings, and music. I can't just sit here mindlessly letting the music go in one ear and out the other. I can't just hear the songs I have to really listen to them too but in doing so I get so much out of them and they really speak to me.

Tom Waits and Bob Dylan: Immersive Listening

In the past my album listening went something like this: listen to the song(s) I really liked over and over (mostly the popular ones), listen to the first few seconds of other songs to see if the song "grabbed" me, and ignore the songs that didn't. This practice could brand me as shallow but many of the albums I bought when I was younger had only a couple of good songs so it's not surprising that I adopted this technique.

There were a few albums where I didn't follow this practice: "Pink Floyd The Wall" and "Stop Making Sense" by the Talking Heads are two that come to mind. Between junior high school when I bought "The Wall" through the end of high school when I bought "Stop Making Sense" I didn't buy any albums at all. Sure, I would have been perfectly happy with "Diary of a Madman" (Ozzie Osborne) and "The B-52s" but I just never plunked down the cash for them.

My album listening technique changed when I started getting into Tom Waits. I started out with his second album "Heart of Saturday Night" and it's a wonder to behold in its entirety. After that, I bought his first album "Closing Time," another wonder, then I bought "Mule Variations."

"Mule Variations" came out in 1999 and was completely different from his early work, even his voice was different with its growling rasp. The first time I heard the album my thought was "What is this shit?" I immediately put the CD away and didn't listen to it for months afterwards. However, and this is a testament to Tom's songwriting and performing, certain phrases and melodies kept floating through my mind. Eventually I gave it another listen and it now remains as one of my favorite Waits albums.

All of this prepared me for Bob Dylan, and I'm finding songs that didn't grab me right away on his albums tend to latch on later. This is why I believe complete immersion in his albums is mandatory for me. I listened to "Highway 61 Revisited" for at least a month before I moved on to "Blonde on Blonde" then I listened to both albums for two more months before moving onto "Bringing It All Back Home."

On "Highway 61" the songs "From a Buick 6," "Queen Jane Approximately," and "Highway 61 Revisited" didn't grab me right away. "From a Buick 6" had a smeared out, diluted sound to me that I didn't like, I didn't know what to make of "Queen Jane" as Bob seemed pushed his vocal capabilities to their limits, and "Highway 61 Revisited" had a jarring quality with a whistle that punctuates parts of the song.

I love all these songs now and the entire album competes with "Blonde on Blonde" as my favorite album of all time knocking "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" off its pedestal where it had been since I was a child. None of this appreciation would have been possible had I not first heard "Mule Variations" and changed my ideas about the necessity of immersing myself in new albums.

It helps, of course, that both Tom and Bob are noted for their superior songwriting capabilities. Sometimes I think both men appeal to me so much because they are storytellers. Many of their songs have characters who move through a story even if it's a very short one. I also think that I love the surreal lyrics to some of Bob's songs because I enjoy writing my own "surreal" blog posts.

Bob's New Album "Together Through Life" Released Today

Bob's 33rd album is finally available. I'd been planning on buying a used version later but I may bite the bullet and get the deluxe CD version for full price. It's all about supporting the man and all. Not that he needs my support but it's the principle of the thing, I guess.

Bob's official website offered one of the songs "Beyond Here Lies Nothing" for a one day download. I have it, of course, and I love it.

Bob's also going on a Summer tour with Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp at minor league baseball fields. So far he'll be in Fresno and Stockton. I'm waiting for more dates to be announced to see if he'll be playing closer to home.

City Life: While I Watched Out For A Simple Twist Of Fate

***Note: This was also posted on Facebook. Most people don't read my long-ish notes posted there.

I met a friend for lunch. While consuming hummus out of an environmentally incorrect plastic container we pondered the flakiness of fellow humanity. I threw away the large plastic container with all its cringe inducing squareness but I recycled the Snapple bottle. Does that even things out?

After lunch I deliberately wandered down to the Financial District. I tried to make it look like I was out for a random stroll but not even the strangers who were paying attention were fooled. I saw a former colleague on her way to BART. She tried to pretend she didn't see me. I smiled at her through my oversized Raybans. She looked great in her high heels, shoes I could never wear.

The wind howled through those small concrete canyons of the District. It pushed and blew my long hair around. I gave up trying to get the tangles out. I longed to strip off my coat and throw my arms wide open to the wind as it slammed into me and nearly knocked me over while I stood on the corner of Market and Montgomery. It was all I could do to keep my iPod phones in my ears. Dylan's breakup songs from "Blood on the Tracks" provided my soundtrack.

Later, at the the Ferry Building I sat pondering the waves on the Bay and the construction of the boats. I managed to force myself to not buy a cup of Peets or Starbucks. I kept telling myself I really wasn't doing anything but in truth I was waiting. Eventually my time came. I walked slowly to the Kinkos at Sacramento St. and Davis. I think I might have had resolution to the mission I'd set for myself but I can't be sure. After I made my copies, I stood outside and contemplated that if I were a chain smoker I'd be having a cigarette while watching a MUNI bus parallel park in front of me. Instead, I fiddled unnecessarily with my iPod phones and called another colleague for coffee. No one was around and I turned slowly without looking up and walked back towards MUNI. I walked some more, determined to continue my spell of supposed aimless wandering but then my iPod crapped out from lack of charge plus my legs were tired. The spell was broken.

MUNI underground or above to home? Tough question. It was rush hour, after all.

Writing Life: The Mental Slog

Bob Dylan, around 1965 perhaps

I rearranged my desk to make it more inspirational for writing. There's a postcard of Rembrandt, some of my art books, some of my favorite non-fiction and fiction books, my own sketchbook open and displayed, a picture of me and a statute of a gryphon at Kew Gardens, and pictures of Bob. After careful searching I made the above picture my tiled wallpaper.

I love seeing this picture when I boot up my computer. I don't know what Bob's writing but I like to think he's working on one of his songs. He both hand wrote and typed his music. This picture makes me want to sit down and write too.

Lately I've been thinking of giving up fiction writing even though I've joined a writing group, bought an online writing course, and have been making great progress on my novel. I keep wondering what would happen if I just stopped but stopping doesn't feel right. On the other hand I feel like I cling to writing like a swimmer clings to a rock surrounded by the incoming tide.

I don't know what I would do with the left over void if I stopped. So much of my life has been set up to support it. Maybe that's my problem. I've put too much into it and let it take over my life.

These thoughts come out of the inevitable slog that writing is. It takes a very long time to write a novel, progress is slow, and there are no guarantees you or anybody else will like the finished product. Lately, I've been noticing how much writing wears me down mentally. So much of what I like to do is mentally oriented: writing and learning new subjects are at the top of the list. My brain seems to go on overload lately. It rebels. It wants to ditch writing for something else. "I need rest," my poor brain says.

Tom Robbins, author of "Even Cowgirls Get The Blues," said that a writer needs to do the following things everyday: 1) get at least 30 minutes of exercise to counteract the mental overload, 2) stare up at the sky (day or night, doesn't matter) for 30 minutes a day, 3) read poetry everyday, and 4) do something to keep your sexual energy up and channel that into your writing. He famously said, "Get yourself into that extreme state next to madness. You should always write with an erection. Even if you're a woman." Frankly, all of that sounds even more exhausting to me.

Last Monday I showed up at my writer's group, but no one else was there because of a scheduling mishap. I wrote for an hour anyway but before I did I reread last week's entry from my previous writer's group. I hadn't really thought about it but what I read was lovely! It wasn't perfect, needed more fleshing out and polishing but I loved the way the characters were interacting. It was subtle and poignant. To think I hadn't really thought about it until I reread it was a complete surprise.

Between being on mental overload and having experiences like the one in the previous paragraph makes me feel like I'm in the middle of a major tug-of-war. How on earth do I keep going when it's clear I have to keep moving forward? I'm just so tired, but then I look at the picture above on my tiled wallpaper and I just want to sit down and write some more.

"If I did sell out, it would be ladies' garments."

So said Bob during his 1965 press conference here in SF. I'm sure all of you have seen Bob's infamous Victoria's Secret ad from a couple of years ago. It features underwear model Adriana Lima and Bob in Venice. Bob's song "Lovesick" is on the soundtrack.

Click here to see it on youtube.

The ad caused quite a bit of controversy when it first aired. It was the first commercial Bob had ever appeared in and plenty of people were upset. Some people said Bob had finally sold his soul.

I think the ad is hilarious and weirdly sexy at the same time.

Although I'm late to the party I have to say that Bob gets to do whatever he wants. Let's say you're a straight male between the ages of 18-99 and Victoria's Secret shows up with the following offer: we'll fly you to Venice for two days all expenses paid, you get to hang out with some ridiculously beautiful women cavorting about in their underwear, and we'll pay you a bunch of money. What male wouldn't say yes to that offer?

Or as Bob himself said, "Was I not supposed to do that?"

Movie Musings: Watchmen

I saw Watchmen last night. Initially, I didn't want to see it because I didn't understand the story from seeing the trailers, but plenty of people seemed to like it and it was getting good reviews.

I really liked it a lot. Even more so now that I've had a day to let it sink in. And it's worth seeing on the big screen.

It started out well for me. The opening title sequence was spectacular. I thought that was just my opinion because they set it to Bob singing "The Times They Are A-Changing" but apparently I'm not the only one who feels that way.

The story is unusual. It's not the typical superhero story so it will take some getting used to. Most of the characters are very well done. Both Jeffrey Dean Morgan as the Comedian and Jackie Earl Haley as Rorschach turned in great performances. I loved Jackie Earl Haley's vigilante borderline sociopath.

The real star of the movie is the story world itself in all its beauty and gritty awfulness. The sets, the costumes, the story world's technologies, how they used the music, the story world's history, the characters' back stories, and the cinematography all come together beautifully to immerse the audience in the Watchmen universe.

The movie has great action sequences and special effects. It's also really violent and gory even by my standards. A couple of scenes made me squirm in my chair. There's a very explicit sex scene filmed in slow motion. Still, I thought these scenes made sense in the Watchmen story world and made sense for the characters. Nothing was out of place.

I'm probably going to see it again tomorrow on the IMAX. I recommend it highly but you have been warned. The movie seriously earns its R rating.

P.S. Oh, and three of Bob's songs are in it. "The Times They Are A-Changing" as I mentioned, Jimi's version of "All Along The Watchtower," and an abbreviated punk cover of "Desolation Row" by My Chemical Romance.

Will Immersion Lead to Burnout?

My obsession with Bob Dylan continues. Earlier this week I galloped my way through "The Rough Guide to Bob Dylan, 2d Ed." It was a library book and I had to finish reading it but in my usual fashion I can't skim a book on a subject I'm interested in. I have to read every word. I wanted to read "The Rough Guide" because I needed an overview of the man's life and work before I start diving into the serious biographies and "Chronicles vol. 1." After that I started taking in "No Direction Home" the splendid documentary by Martin Scorsese. I was about 30 minutes into the second half and had to take a break. In between the book and the documentary I was listening to "Blonde on Blonde," "Bringing It All Back Home," and "Highway 61 Revisited" over and over. I've heard "Blood on the Tracks" several times now, a stunning specimen of an album, but I'm just not ready for the mid-1970s yet.

I woke up earlier this week and realized I had finally gone overboard. Yes, I had been dreaming about Bob. It's like I was following him around on his world tour in 1966. I leaned against a pole backstage and listened to the audience booing the electric half of the show. I followed him as he fought his way through fans and the flashing light bulbs of the press. I watched him pop amphetamines and smoke a whole lot of pot. I watched him stay up all night smoking and writing and refining his songs on his portable typewriter. I had to keep getting out of the way of various people in his entourage, visitors (the Beatles), and D.A. Pennebaker with his film camera. None of them could see me. I felt a little like Mr. Gryphon.

I decided I should take a break from Bob. I'd finished reading the book. I took a deep breath and tried not to play any Bob songs then I found something on the internet. Something wonderful and true. I found Dylanradio.com.

Dylanradio.com plays his songs 24/7 spanning a recorded career from 1962 to a live set from this past week's concert in Sweden. A hundred versions of his songs stream though my computer: bootlegs, covers, studio outtakes, alternate cuts, throwaway tracks, and live versions from barely-able-to-hear-the-words in coffee shops to massive stadium concerts. I've been playing Dylanradio.com for hours and I just don't get tired of it. Today, I've heard about six different versions of "All Along The Watchtower" (though not the definitive version by Jimi Hendrix) and about the same number of versions of "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall." "A Hard Rain's" a glorious song by the way.

One of my really good friends pointed out a character trait of mine that I never really thought about before. She said I tend to immerse myself in subjects I want to know about. This is true but I feel so single-minded about Bob. I feel like a unending absorbent sponge that's soaking up this man's music and life. I feel like I'm inhaling Bob Dylan like I used to inhale books when I was in grade school and an obsessive reader.

I'm sure my ardor for all things Bob will cool down. I might even burn out on him. Until that happens I'm going to sit here listening to his songs and marvel at the wonder of it all. Even with this somewhat embarrassing single-minded focus I'm still glad to be me.

Your Debutante Knows What You Need But I Know What You Want

It's been a week of My Listy and other efficiencies. The flushed-with-function working papers are piled up in black and white stacks just waiting to rush forward. Ideas fly around like small owls racing away from the cold dawning Sun. Bats open and close their wings in appreciation. They lean forward, teeth out, as I gently hand them their magic fruit breakfasts, juices running riot over my fingers.

It's also been a week of rollercoastering emotions. Just last week I thought I'd die or at least switch identities from the rising floods around here. Salt and waves were threatening to knock me off my lone rocky island. The tide sneaked in and surrounded me, unceremoniously. I stayed stranded (or maybe LOST) but only for 48 hours before my imaginary friend came to get me in a tiny boat with choking outboard motor, with the gasoline fumes overwhelming my olfactory sense. The rain made things more difficult but there's always a hot fireplace and welcome bathtub to crawl back to. That you can be sure of.

After the floods came the battle with the volcanoes, the roiling gray-white hot ash. The flooding hot mud. I was in the truck just ahead of the eruption's blast, my companion yelling "We CAN'T outrun the ASH!" I knew differently especially as I pushed the truck to 125 mph. It was a straight if bumpy road. We would find sanctuary soon even as I tried to unclench my teeth. The wind kicked up hot air but the truck didn't fall apart and I managed to keep myself grounded in the midst of hell's earthly appearance.

Now the volcanoes are reduced to the sometime desire to throw something against my apartment walls, but I'm willing to throw one of the dog's soft cushy toys so we know what that's about, and I'm sure you'll agree I've come far just in the past few hours.

Times sure have become a scarcity and conservative's wet dream. By conservative, I'm not talking elephants, not even the neo-con ones. I'm talking about people who don't want to rock the boat, money hangers-on is what I'm talking about. There are greenbacks to grip tightly in panicked fists and taxes to dry heave about. I'm in a good place even without employment. I believe in myself, and more importantly, I believe in the power of information and the scattering of ideas, albeit some unconventional ones.

Even with all that activity efficiency reigns in this place. Oh, and I still get to keep those desirable package deals with their swooning riffs and endless compliments. I didn't have to trade them in after all.

He's Hoping I'll Come Through

Won't you come with me baby ?
I'll take you where you wanna go
And if it don't work out
You'll be the first to know
I'm pledging my time to you
Hopin' you'll come through too.

- Bob Dylan, "I'm Pledging My Time," Blonde on Blonde, 1966

It's amazing how you can take forms of art, such as the above lyrics, and apply it to whatever is going on in your life. I feel like I'm on the verge of a faint blossoming, that I'll see the silver streaked road over the next rise on that hill of saturated green in the distance. The question is do I want to climb that hill?

The alternative is rather staid, but at least it won't be stifling. Haven't I always said I've wanted to hear the words: "Stay with me. Stay with me because it's better to be together than apart. Stay with me and we'll be unstoppable."

It sounds like I'm auditioning for a weird stage play featuring two superheros in Danskin tights who are on the verge of splitting up, but know that their strength lies in being as one. The stage is too small, wooden. The tights are too tight, they don't match exactly. The older superhero is so confused that he has to read from the script because he keeps losing his place. The curtains are tattered and yellow. And yet there's the fragrant note of optimism in the air which hovers as the audience rises to its feet at the end. It's a sweet time to be a superhero in a stage play.

It's an even sweeter time to listen to Bob Dylan who might just sway this situation with his harmonica, organ, and guitar. I keep asking myself if I trust Bob, but what I'm really asking is do I trust myself? I'm supposed to be fragile, but I know I'm not. Perhaps I need to stop acting so fragile. After all, a superhero is still a superhero even on a too small stage.

But There's Nothing Really Nothing To Turn Off

"That's some patient pup you've got there, Miss Turtle."

"Hm," I say in response. The apartment door has closed behind me and I am making my way down some burgundy heavily carpeted stairs. The apartment building is grand and old. The stairs are narrow and I hold the white painted banister with my right hand. I walk through the lovely lobby of the building, Mr. Gryphon behind me. I walk out of the building and turn right. I am approaching the corner of Gough and Broadway in my beloved City. It's a pleasant, cool night. The cool air feels good on my tear stained cheeks.

"Do you want my opinion?"

"You seem to want to give it to me," I say as we cross the intersection toward my car. I am making slow, almost swaggering strides. Lower Pacific Heights is a lovely neighborhood of beautiful houses, apartment buildings, and school buildings.

"The bones of your ghosts are seeping in compassion and trust. They cannot hold themselves together for long before they dissolve leaving you in a place of affection and friendship."

I turn around about a half a block from where my car is. I stare at Mr. Gryphon. "What the fuck are you talking about?" I put my hand on my hip. My trademark tears are starting up again. I am angry and hurt. Angry at myself for tender feelings. Hurt about the situation.

"I mean," says Gryphon as he walks slowly up to me and slides his arms around me, "I'm feeling an affinity for your pup, there." The way he's holding me is too familiar for comfort. I pull away and start walking back towards the car.

"Yes, Mr. Gryphon, you AND the dog are apparently in complete agreement." He says nothing in response, but I know that no matter what happens he will still be there with me. He will not leave me and he will always give me a place to come back to.

Some lines from a song plays in my mind:
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft

But there's nothing really nothing to turn off*

I stop next to my car. "Mr. Gryphon, why can't you be my boyfriend?"

He blinks slowly before responding. "I'm your imaginary friend. Boyfriend or no, it appears you've found the real deal, Miss Turtle. There's nothing to turn off here from what I can see." I glare at him and then make my way to the driver's side of my car. I get inside then open the door for him. He slides in easily.

"This sucks," I say my voice breaking a little. I have put my keys in the ignition, but have not turned them yet. I put my hands on the steering wheel, gripping tightly. "It appears, Mr. Gryphon, that I have truly found what I've been looking for."

"So you have, Miss Turtle. What are you going to do now?"

I grit my teeth. "You know what I'm going to do now." Mr. Gryphon smiles a rare smile at me. I turn the key in the ignition and pull away from the curb. It will be good to get home.

*Bob Dylan, "Visions of Johanna," Blonde on Blonde, 1966

Better Late Than Never and The Post Below

In the last couple of weeks I've been slowly getting to know Bob Dylan. I don't know how it came about. I was surfing around, saw a blurb about Cate Blanchett's performance in "I'm Not There," and decided to see if there were any excerpts on youtube.com. There were and I started watching them. I was amazed by her performance, but realized quickly that I had no reference point to compare it to so I clicked on a video to Bob's 1965 press conference here in SF.

I was amazed. I had no idea. I couldn't believe it.

I couldn't believe Cate's performance, but even more importantly I was completely mesmerized by Bob. And this was just the 1965-66 time frame I was looking at. That doesn't include anything before or after that.

I have a very superficial knowledge of his life and music. Sure, I know he's a legend. I'm familiar with a couple of his songs, but that's it. I know nothing else.

I still haven't seen all of "I'm Not There" but the film has provided me with a idea to start exploring. I read up on Wikipedia's entry for the film to get an idea of how the film is structured since it's been described as "confusing." I've been watching more youtube.com videos, such as "Bob Dylan (The Voice of a Generation)," the full outtake from "Eat the Document" of Bob and John Lennon in the car, and Bob's interview with Time Magazine. And I've continued to watch Cate's excerpts from "I'm Not There."

I spoke to one of my good friends who suggested I start with the following CDs: Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, and Blood on the Tracks. I'm a bit embarrassed to have come to Bob so late, but there's nothing I can do about that. It's all so ripe for exploring. I'm excited.

***
The post below came out of an argument I had with this guy I just started seeing. As I was driving away from his house on Sunday, snippets of conversation started running in my head. I was feeling emotional and angry at myself, then angry at him. Then I was feeling defiant, then I was picturing myself chain-smoking and wearing shades, and that's how the post started. The snippets of conversation came directly out of the Bob Dylan's press releases in 1965-66, and from Cate Blanchett's segments from the film "I'm Not There." Much of Cate's dialog also comes out of those same press releases. I figure if Cate can be Bob Dylan, I don't see why I can't either.

I'm hoping no one takes offense to the post. It was done with love and the deepest admiration. Besides Bob is supposed to everyone (including me) and no one.

Dating Life: Me As The Fictional Bob Dylan

I'm sitting in the back seat of a limo. I'm in my favorite Bob-Dylan-as-Cate-Blanchett mode all tricked out in dark shades and little suit. The interviewer is sitting across from me. He is my age and wearing a nice all wool gray peppered suit. He happens to be the guy who lasted a week, the last guy I was dating. It's early in the morning. The only thing that would make this post better is if Mr. Gryphon were sitting to my right as John Lennon, but he says playing John makes him sad. Since John/Mr. Gryphon isn't here for this post, I'll have to do this interview sober.

Interviewer: "You realize more than anything that you were inconsiderate."

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan: "Inconsiderate?! I don't realize anything at all. I just care about what's going on right now. I know you don't realize anything. You think you can take these ideas and afix them to me like some kind of Avery Label generated by Microsoft Word, but you can't. You don't know anything. I don't blame you for it. Everybody's got to make a living."

Interviewer (wrinkling his brow, his thumbs blunted as he unconsciously pulls on his tie): "You're not making any sense. Are you saying you don't care?"

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (squinting, then blinking rapidly for a moment behind my shades): "I'm confused by some of those words. Words like 'inconsiderate' and 'concerned' and 'care' and 'put me on the spot.' I don't know what those words mean. They have as much meaning to me as 'smoked clams.'"

(At this point in the interview I'm reminded of a quote from Humpty Dumpty in Through the Looking Glass "When I use a word it means just what I chose it to mean - neither more, nor less." I'm chain-smoking incessantly, of course.)

Interviewer (starting to glare, but uncomfortably seated): "I think we all know what 'smoked clams' means.

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (I look down at my hands, my cigarette; I lick my lips): "Do we?"

Interviewer (glowering at me, raising his voice as if I can't really hear him): "I told you I don't like people touching my stuff, especially my knives and pots, and I never needed your help doing the dishes. I told you NO!"

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (my eyes pleading like Cate Blanchett, I flick my cigarette): "I just wanted to help a little. You were doing all that great cooking. I wanted to show my appreciation even if I don't know what 'smoked clams' means. I'm not a folk singer, I'm just a storyteller, and I can be a dishwasher sometimes. It's all mathematical."

Interviewer (looks down at his lap, shifts in his seat): "I was just going to say something rude about something that happened between us, something that you just don't seem to understand the meaning of, but I'll spare the readers of this blog."

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (lighting yet another cigarette, my delicate hands gently cupping the lighter): "Thanks for that. It's too bad I'm not pissed in this interview. I was really looking forward to my 15 minutes which would have included me vomiting into the camera. I've done everything else into that camera, man. Plus, I've missed my opportunity to keep yelling questions to Tom the Driver which is more interesting than talking to you."

Interviewer (agitated): "I never needed any space from you. I just needed to pay the bills and you didn't see the obvious. You didn't see the obvious. I never needed to say anything or to tell you the truth when you kept asking me 'do you want me to leave?' You should have just known."

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (I'm in the middle of a massive exhalation of smoke, I look out the window before looking back at him again): "What you just said doesn't mean anything. How am I supposed to know anything about what I should have known when I didn't. I don't have to answer to that. There's a certain class of people who read your magazine and believe in it, but I don't. You're just going to put your readers on. You're trying to put me on and I refuse to let it happen."

Interviewer (with a trace of warmth): "Do you think you'll ever be hung as a thief?"

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (everyone in the room (car) is laughing, he and I share a final moment of levity): "You weren't supposed to say that."

Interviewer (pauses first, searching my eyes behind my wayfarers): "Do you care about what you play every night?"

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (I'm feeling a surge of anger and indignation and I lean forward): "How can I answer that if you have the nerve to ask me? Did you ask the Beatles that? That's like asking me if I care about what I write. You have a lot of nerve asking me a question like that. I'm not questioning you because I'm not expecting any answers from you. I know more about you than you'll ever know about me. I know everything about you just by looking at you."

Sadly, the interview is over, but that doesn't mean I'm no longer pissed off. I step out of the car and start walking down the street. I don't look back until the Interviewer says something to me from the car.

Interviewer (looking smug): I think you either care about nothing at all, or you care so deeply that you're hiding it. Do you have any idea how self-conscious you are in everything you do?"

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (now really angry, almost shouting): Man, who cares what I think or feel? I'm not the President or head chef. Feeling deeply? Is that what this is about? General feelings like pain, remorse, and love? I have none of those feelings."

I walk away, looking awesome in my little suit with drainpipe trousers, slightly stooped posture, curly hair, ubiquitous cigarette, and shades.

Interviewer (shouting): "Judas!"

Me, the Fictional Bob Dylan (speaking deliberately, looking back at him): "I don't believe you. You're a liar."