Caravan (3), May 1967

       Returning from one of my habitual  walks to the stream bed, I find Rick seated on the stairs of the caravan. He’s singing a song that I don’t know, has not heard me coming, so I wait for him to finish before beginning to applaud.

      “Bravo!”

      “Hi, Nar. I just came here with the guitar for a while, I like watching how the sun shines at this time behind the house. I’m already gone…“

      I offer him a coffee and, upon entering to prepare it, he follows me and remains standing at the bookshelves, perusing. He’s left his guitar in the sun.

      “A lot of paper in such a small place”, he comments.

      “Well, it’s my world. You musicians live amongst instruments, and those of us who write tend to accumulate books and notebooks. It’d be because we like to surround ourselves with objects we feel comfortable with.”

      “Yeah, I guess, although at times you really have to work at it. Yesterday, we carried down the drums and the piano, they took up too much space upstairs, and moreover we're getting a taste for playing in the basement, although it has everything wrong with it for a great sound: cinder block, concrete-block walls, and a cement floor, the usual make-up of a fuckin' garage, and a steel furnace as loud as hell. It occurred to us to put in a rug, try that out. If that don’t do much good, at least it’ll make Hamlet feel more comfortable, as Dylan says.”

      “I get the impression that he’s coming here to meet you guys more and more frequently.”

      “Yeah, it’s true, he says that he likes this pink house and what we’re convertin’ it into… Add to that, playin' together at his is just more complicated, especially with the kids all over the place.”

      “Do you think that I could come down and listen to you guys sometime? I usually do it from outside, but it would be great to sit some evening in a corner of the basement…”

      “I ain't got no problem with that, but I don’t know what Dylan and Robbie would say about it. If you’d like, I can ask ‘em.”

      “You don’t know, how grateful I’d be. I promise not to bother you.”

      “I”ll let you know. I’m off now. Thank you for the coffee.”

      “Listen, what was that you were playing when I showed up?”

      “A song I’m still shootin’ around ideas for, it’s not finished. Deals with the hardness of waitin’, or somethin’ like that. Did ya like it?”

      “A lot, Rick. I know all too well about impatience.

       You’ll let me know soon, OK?”