Bob Dylan is not wrong. We live in a political world. My meditation app (Headspace) has suggested I look at rhythm and flow today (rhythm + flo), in the interest of being mindful of what I do. Not to leap through it and get to the next thing. Nor to dither and avoid the next thing. What am I doing here? I am crafting a sacred creation ceremony. Today I listen to Bob Dylan as I write. Every morning I do a dance to unlock my creativity. Then I place an image in my mind from the Farm or the surrounding environs and bow to the Lord, to God, whoever They are, and thank Them and worship Them. That means that I am both in awe of Them and thankful for Them.
That is my morning.
Then I sit at the computer and I do one of these free writes. All of this coming after my morning meditation. So now I sit here. And I’m reminded that yesterday I had a thought about writing and creation. It’s not independent from my life, there’s another word I’m looking for, not distinct, it’s not…self-contained (I suppose works well enough). It’s just a chance for me to slip out some words as I live, as I continue to live, as I always do. The technique of writing is practicing how thoughts go from my head out of my fingertips and onto the page. It is a technique, it is a craft, and it is an Act. It’s not a standalone Act however, where the rest of my life disappears and it’s – DISCREET! yes – that’s the word I was looking for – it is not discreet from what came before it and what comes afterwords. It is simply the me who is transitioning, changing, from thing to thing practicing the craft of letting some words out. And part of that is storytelling. And storytelling performs a function. Storytelling is an act of transference, the story starts in one human (though it belongs to far more than that, perhaps the whole human race no matter how you slice it) and is transferred to another. So the craft of writing, creating, and storytelling is in service of transference, from the author or creator to an audience or listener or receiver. And how the story gets from point A to point B…the methods are as infinite as there are combinations and groups of people. Even if I were telling myself the story, the technique would be as infinitely varied as I have moods and states, which is infinite.
So Bob Dylan (Bod Dylan) is singing Ring them Bells. But that is the Bob Dylan who just came from Knocked out Loaded or Down in the Groove or maybe even Empire Burlesque (I can’t remember) and the Bob Dylan (Baby Dylan) going towards Under the Red Sky. Or even more genuinely, the Bob Dylan going from whatever was happening to him at the end of the eighties, what he was doing, and what will happen to him and what he will do in the nineties. This is a divorcee. This is a man who was the spirit and hope of Folk. This is the man who betrayed them all, called Judas on stage. And now he’s what in his early to late forties? And he’s releasing the energy he has in a recording session, both speaking from something that he wrote beforehand, or will shape afterwards in post, but is also raw material coming out of wherever and however he is in that moment. And it’s all important.
Where was I going with that? Where am I going? What am I trying to say?
Well, that I’m sitting here channeling raw existence into words, experience, process into words. I’m coming from the patio by the pool where I was just waiting to pour boiling water, painstakingly, over a coffee filter stuffed with ground Peets coffee, black as night soil. And there was a low hanging roof of fumes from the nearby fires hanging over me. The self that sat here meditating and pulled himself from the moment into thought and then noticed the moment again and then wondered if he was doing it wrong. The me that noticed the strange chugging sound from outside and let it in and wondered what it was and then brought my awareness back to how my body feels lower on the left side than the right side. The me who stood up and danced to Political World and did little tiny steps, and enjoyed the energy that burst up through me, joyful. The me that heard Bob Dylan’s voice and remembered how it was getting so smoky at this phase. The me who is now letting out my experience, trying to capture this context, also trying to tell the story of my morning to myself, as I listen to Bob Dylan’s Man in the Long Black Coat. The me that reflects that it reminds me of Tom Waits. The me that likes Bob Dylan’s cigarette tray voice. The me that likes the curling guitar and the mystery and oomph of this song. And the me who will soon go to look for Rebecca, wondering if we will continue to get along as we have, a little trepidatious that I will create pain and strife. The me that will eat outside and perhaps who will have had too much coffee and feel his head thick and fuzzy and sharp and the man that has too much energy. Currently the man looking at the party glass lamp by me with a vaguely Aztec pattern and a glass surface like folded, aquamarine skin. The me that wonders if my Mom brought this lamp down here. That thinks the aquamarine glass looks like swords and likes it and who is reminded of the dagger by my old bed with the naked woman enfolded in a dragon, the dagger I’m too afraid to bring out to the Farm in case anyone ever has the chance to use it. Long ago driving roads with Ryan around the curve of the Marin Headlands thinking the road is like a roller coaster and listening to Fleet Foxes, high. The me that one day will be in a room with papers and cigar smoke sitting in a reddish armchair. The me that will meet one of my heroes and shake his hand and look into his eyes and smile and feel like a true human.
Prophecies of the Past.
Blue Notes 