Bob Dylan
Dylan on the stereo Blonde on Blonde visions of Johanna sad eyed just like a woman knowing sooner or later if you just did what you were supposed to and the songs were Mary’s favourite and the question I would be asking her if she just did what she was supposed to do and Dylan brings it all back home, memories, fantasies and I’m lying on the bed wondering about the women in my life knowing I’ll never hear from them and Mary said goodbye for a while didn’t realise she was saying goodbye for good and a million visions of a million questions and I still want you I want you so fucking bad remembering with Blonde on Blonde all the love that was real and that no matter what lives on. I’m just not understanding how being so close can end up being so far out of touch.
Bob Dylan and sweet Marie the brass wind chimes sunlight breeze baby in his brave new world and cocaine greasing the works humanising the machine, cocaine thoughts of woman and actually the whole thing is about love a million layers surrounding this planet that I am, the stars of woman feed my evolving life forms. Loving .What ever you say it is all your alive for, love no matter what you believe you’re sum total is love that’s the one you take with you when you go.
I am being an afternoon blue of sky blue sky white cotton candy puffs across a limitless possibilities sky. Never was there an afternoon like this, never will there ever be again. I am living a treasure, wild one of a kind jewel, wild free uncut never to be set gem. I live the wondrous miracle sky blue sky white sun green scent lilacs drift up through open windows, fragile soon to be destroyed by time, forgetfulness, unawareness, storm of evening, this fragile afternoon of being tender miracle afternoon. Dylan sweet the lingering memories of woman on a happening afternoon limitless as any other day, night, moment by moment never to be the same never to be repeated never to ever in all the time you wish to imagine another afternoon like the one I am being right now.
Typing: again
No one to talk to don’t think I have a friend in the world, not the talk to kind, not one of the talk to kind. My machine, the only one I can talk to about my dreams, my fears, my fights with my wife, my hopes for my son. We had a bad fight today my wife and I don’t even know if we are still married or not. I don’t feel like I want to be any more. My thoughts are of my son though; if only his mother and I could get along we love him so much. But I’m thinking how beautiful, how perfect he is and she deliberate or not is driving me away from him and if we’re not married anymore? What will my son think of me when he is grown and someone else is his father? What will he think when he needs someone to talk to and I’m not there? What will he be like? If he’s like his mother then all is lost.
I am dreaming. Dreaming that the world isn’t ugly and it is that the world is serene but it’s a nightmare of petty aggravations built up to explosions. The food of insanity, origin of madness those petty insignificant dramas of the world, petty yet accumulating into things that overwhelm. I am dreaming that my son would want someone to talk to and it would be me. But what ever child talks, what child is ever allowed to speak? The whole environment from home to the entire planet is geared for no talking, no expression. It is geared for shutting up; even the most political of power struggles is about the power to shut up. Power is determining what the acceptable, allowable expression is. All rulers rule by shutting up.
I am dreaming someday I’ll have more than a machine to talk to but reality is I’m lucky to at least have that. I am lucky to have a machine to talk to. I never met a human being except maybe once but she turned sour too she turned into one of the petty basket cases that is commonly known as normal – sold out love for security – but she a least got me this machine. This machine that listens better than anyone else. I am dreaming that someday art will be more important than shutting up, that someday cash will not be considered a human attribute, and the definitions for human, love, art, cash, value, success, will be rewritten. That someday someone will discover and bring to light the fact that we have totally fucked the definition of these words, that we don’t even know the meaning of human, that cash isn’t a definition of humanness, that art isn’t cash and that machine is the closest to real human that we have right now. My best friend is a machine, it lets me dream, lets me express, it listens like no person ever does. I’ve told more to this typewriter than to any one. I have shared more with it than with any lover friend or god. I have shared more with it and not strictly by choice or desire but by the fact that everyone else is deaf and I believe my only hope is my son, perhaps there I can find a human connection but my wife is driving me away and I am crazy with fear for loosing what might very well be my only chance. And too I am afraid that I am only dreaming a night mare with my wife into a bearable situation in order to stay with my son and in so doing totally alienate him and simply assist him in becoming just one more cash defined human.
Countless
There are countless words that could be written, countless combinations to express countless thoughts. Countless the one word that can describe it all countless countlessly lost set adrift in the countless worlds adrift there are no directions, there are no homes no families, no lovers, only drifters only lost and like the wind who knows such things I am not happy not sad only looking, seeing everything not ever really knowing anything yet always looking countlessly ever onwards.
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