In this World of Parts
In this world of parts Bob Dylan is singing a
I do not understand a word that he is singing.
He is painting pictures to view.
Like splattered paint on a wonderful canvas.
He is carrying my life into emotions.
Placing me in this moment and time.
Laurel said write about him, so I did.
I first heard his words in the songs of others. I do not know what year? I guess I could look it up and maybe I have, whatever.
I first saw his album at Tolstoy Farm in Washington State. I listened on an old phonograph at the campsite by Andee's and Tom's cabin. His words moved in abstract visions, painting small pictures, completely refreshing and new. His words were kissing our learned language goodbye. I understood nothing then, I was only pleased with the difference places his music was taking us. I was not able to view my images then, only his. I was not understanding him, I was just listening. Where I was going was unknown to me.
Perhaps after thirty years I understand that I too can paint abstract visions and post it on walls of phosphorescence glass.
He dared thirty years ago and I only dare now.
And now a gold status statue is placed in his honor for only a song.
How strange, I repeat my self again, how strange. His early grasp of life was heard by all, yet nothing was learned. It is like Christmas, we all celebrate Good Will Toward Mankind on Christmas Day and truly try not to kill anyone on that day. He said "Take Care." and he meant it. I understand and live by that.
We comprehend yet still misbehave.
Looking for fortunes, looking up, looking down, turning my head in circles, and looking for fortunes.
Looking for more good feelings, grasping at the air as the rain falls, a mist, a heavy mist.
Drops of moisture move down this glass that I see.
I am lookin for fortunes.
March 11, 2001bongaMarch 17, 2001
March 19, 2001bongaMarch 23, 2001
March 29, 2001bongaMarch 29, 2001
April 02, 2001bongaApril 05, 2001
April 09, 2001bongaApril 12, 2001
Words & Graphics by Tomas