Back Pages – Brown Notebook – July 1967

n e x t    t o    l i f e

 

A r t    i s    u n i m p o r t A n t

 

 

[ everybody should know ]

 

 

. . .  o t h e r w i s e

everybody’s building

 the big ships and the boAts

    . . .

Caravan (16) July 1967

    Dylan is approaching the caravan with his usual tilting gait -right hand in the back pocket of his trousers, a rolled up newspaper in his left. He raises it in greeting to which Rick responds with a similar gesture. I just say a rushed “Good Morning” followed by an invitation to try and hide my excitement:

    - Anyone for coffee?

   Rick does not have the time, he explains as he says a hurried goodbye leaving me standing there alone, opposite my own reflection in the dark glasses behind which Dylan still hides his eyes. His voice breaks the spell:

   - Make it a strong one!

     I go in to the caravan; he stays on the stairs and lights a cigarette. Whilst I wash up my two best cups, I invite him in to sit down at the table. He takes a seat with his back to the large window, leaving his glasses by the ashtray, and silently looks around at the chaos that sums up my living space. I take my time preparing the coffee so that the grinder noise frees me from the need to say who-knows-what. When the din subsides, it is Dylan who speaks first.

 

   - Five guitars in sight, not bad for such a small place. Where do you keep the Ibanez you brought down to the basement the other day? 

   - It´s in the maroon case over there, get it out if you like.

 

   Whilst he tests out the instrument, I put the coffee on the heat and start rummaging through the shelves hoping to find some sugar and not be the one to have to speak first. I run out of excuses when the coffee is ready to serve and Dylan puts the guitar aside and lights up his cigarette again.

    - It sounds good, doesn´t it? What was that you were playing?
   - I´ll tell you after you tell me who you are and what you are doing here.

    Dylan at point-blank. My story cut up in black and white sketches. Music with tar, smelling like seaweed. Synopses, synesthesias, meaninglessness. Stopped time.
 

   When I stop talking, I realize that I am standing next to the door; he has finished his cup of coffee and is drinking mine, forgotten on the table. As his only response to my story, he arches his eyebrows; putting out his last cigarette in the almost full ashtray, he unexpectedly fires again:

   - What´s that on the wall next to the mirror? 

   I turn my head and, alongside my reflection, I see what awoke his curiosity:

a 10 x 15 postcard, dark and light in equal measure. I unpin it and offer it to him.

   - It is Velazquez´s Christ Crucified. I spent some time looking at him in El Prado, when I was last in Madrid.

   - That sign on the cross... Can I keep it?”

   Without awaiting a reply, he hurriedly gets up, putting on his glasses.

   - Thanks for everything. We´ll talk, now I have to go.

   He leaps down the caravan steps and a few meters on, his back to me, he says goodbye waving his left hand.

    - That was Josh White I was playing before. Bring the Ibanez to the basement this evening! - I hear him say.

   By the door, now on the grass, lies the newspaper he greeted us with when he arrived. Rustling in the wind, the pages resound like propellers. As they turn, a headline:

   “ Sensational find in Tulsa ”.

Back Pages – Brown Notebook – No Date

The  future

for  me  is  already  a  thing  of  the  past

[ I heard it in a dream ]

Caravan (15) Early July 1967

         

           Standing  on  the  steps of the  caravan, the  sun  is  drawing  circles  of  light  over my closed eyelids. I have still not awakened from the dream that last night ended a long, conclusive journey, my consciousness tries to fill in the last stage of the return when a magenta voice makes me open my eyes. Rick, smiling.

 

     - Hiya, Nar! Long time no see! Where've ya been?

     - It´s a long story...Ya could say I've been a pilgrim, visited a couple of places, got back last night. How 'bout you?

     - All good, enjoying the summer, basement's getting better all the time. There's a good vibe and Dylan's super inspired, ideas pouring out non-stop...A couple of days back he gave me some more lyrics he's almost finished: “Give it some rhythm” he said, so that's what I'm doing.

     - So, what's it about?

    - The truth is I'm not sure myself...Well, there are verses which talk to a 'you' and they rise up around a wheel...It's on fire and about to explode. And I'm trying to shore up that feeling of imminent danger with the bass, so he can ride it with his voice. Anyways, if you come by the basement tonight, you can hear what it is sounding like at the moment.

       - And what would Dylan say if I turned up again?

     - Nothing, I suppose. You're lucky he likes you. Yes, it does happen sometimes! Why the face!?

      - How can you be so sure?

    - Well, the other day he asked about you...And once I heard him say you have the “right attitude”, that you too prefer “old news”.

     - What did he mean?

     - You'd better ask him. Here he comes.

      Dylan is walking past the kitchen entrance. He stops for a moment, at the door, as if looking for something or someone. Walking now towards the caravan his dark glasses hide the tracks of his eyes.

What about 65-66? Back Pages – Brown Notebook – End-September 1967

Sometimes it's not enough to know the meaning of things.

Sometimes we have to know what things don't mean as well.

 

                           I   stopped   trying   to   figure   everything   out   a   long   time   ago.

Back Pages - Brown Notebook - Early July 1967

Our conclusions

should be

more drastic

                 ...

Won't you come see me //  us

in the basement

again ?

C h r o n i c l e

An entry in this blog

is like a dream,

and you try to make both come true.

They're like strange countries that you have to enter.

W  h  o     s  a  i  d     t  h  a  t    ?