When his car disappears behind the trees of the road, I go into the caravan and prepare my breakfast while I watch the closed notebook on the table. I try to put off the moment when to start reading, savoring the uncertainty of what its contents may be. I do not want to make suppositions, I only contemplate its dimension, its rare color, and the marks usage has left on its cover and corners. Halfway through the second cup of coffee, I open the brown covers with trembling hands. On the first page there is a drawing: two figures with a schematic silhouette shout on both sides of a star-shaped wheel; another figure which appears on its back observes the scene and cries out an exclamation of surprise. No comment offers a hint, just a few strokes of a childlike simplicity highlighted by the use of three cartoon balloons drawn in a hurry. I start turning the pages over and discover that this is a book of notes, some of them headed with dates beginning on April 1967, approximately a month after, in this caravan, I started writing the first chapters of the biography; the daily notes about life in [or behind] Big Pink and some outlines for the farewell stories. I like his calligraphy, this is the first thing I note, and then I start to understand how much it intrigues me and unsettles me to know the content of these pages.
I go for a walk to the creek, hoping that the fresh air can drive away this distress. The notebook remains on my bed. I smile when I realize that it is almost the same color as the blanket, just a little bit lighter than the ink
used by Dylan in his writing.