Bob Dylan

by Lisa Zaran

Bob Dylan

From Your Mouth To My Ear
~What are you? A blue morning songbird?~

The day Bob Dylan sings his last song, the world, by some bold stroke of madness, will slip on its axis. I’m pretty sure of it. There will be a huge fuss made. Clouds will weep. The sun and moon will probably make some major transformation. God will take a look at his wristwatch and mark the time. I for one will probably lay my head down and cry my eyes out.

And all for nothing because a song is infinite. Let me rephrase that. A Bob Dylan song is infinite. Sure, it starts out in the backyard of his mind like any song might, slowly making its way through the grass, around the corner of the house, over the fence. Eventually it leaves the neighborhood, the city it was born in and travels the world. Soon birds are carrying bits of it in their beaks, rivers are churning parts of it into rock, women are undressing, moving their legs along, kissing the face of it.

Each time I slip a track on, love rubs together between the lyrics. To be sure, I listen to it again. Why do I flirt with this danger, contriving to make every song relate somehow to me? How manipulative a woman can be.

A lot of people credit Bob Dylan with all sorts of intelligence. With intuitiveness and grace and a genuine profoundness. And what was it that a fountain of folks coined him with, my stone faced prince? Oh yes, voice of a generation. Which I believe, he will never out-run or out-live. The phrase, I’m afraid, has been permanently stuck.

I now reside in that pale little roadside town called Dylanville. It has one main street that runs down the center of it. Some buildings, not too big and showy though. A bank, a bar, a post office, a general store, a church at either end. But, the best part is the museumslashlibrary. In it lies every song, every outtake, every bootleg, every recording, word, breath, sigh to ever pass over the lips of Bob Dylan. I’m the owner, in fact. I keep a bed in the back. I get my meals from the cafe across the street. Above me, built into the ceiling is a skylight to let the moon and stars in. Last night it was a water show of rain. I’ll never move so long as I live.

I know why it’s called devotion. To be determined, unselfish worship. Zeal, love, piety. Fidelity.

Devotion falls right behind devour in the dictionary. Devour: to eat hungrily, to swallow up, to take in greedily, as with the eyes.

Yes, as with the eyes and as with the ears. But, oh my dear. As with clusters of rhyme his lyrics break open inside of my ears, each song is like a great stone that shatters into pebbles once inside. And my ears bleed to listen. As with any fierce joy, fierce want, fierce hope, fierce fierce-ity.

There is an interview I read once where Bob Dylan is asked about his songs, how analysts break them down and dismantle them searching for clues, which he discourages.

His simple response: I let the songs fly, and people respond.

So you are a songbird.

~ Lisa Zaran ~

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~ This piece was posted on Tuesday, April 19th, 2005 and was filed under Blog. You can make comments on it below. ~