Hope And Wine

by Lisa Zaran

It’s 11:28 p.m. and I’m sitting on the patio in the moonlight, sipping wine
and listening to Love And Theft as it drifts out through the open kitchen
window.

I am breathing the music. I am taking it in through my pores. My life at
this very moment is better than anybody else’s. My mind is just foggy
enough to crawl in and out of the lyrics like they’re my own personal late
night playground.

I’m a good listener even though I slouch in my chair. I take in everything.
The stars. Crickets chirping. Distant traffic. The flickering blue
light of my neighbors television through the pale curtains. My finger on
the trigger of fate.

Bob Dylan. Born 63 almost 64 years ago. I could give you the time, the
place and his birth weight if I wanted to. I could pretty much recite his
childhood history too. Or at least, what I have read about it in books and
magazine articles, over the internet. It wouldn’t change anything. This
essay, this thing rather, that I’m writing would still circle back to this
late evening and this bottle of cheap, grocery store bought Merlot and
music. His music and how it affects me.

I used to think it was possible to be happy and still write a sad song or a
sad poem. Now, I’m not so sure. I find myself wondering if Bob Dylan was
happy when he wrote Summer Days. Especially now as this summer approaches.
Soon the heat will overtake everything. The city and the suburbs from
daybreak to daybreak. Soon I will have to do all of my listening and
wondering indoors. Though, I would have to say, nothing can melt the bark
off a ficus tree like his voice.

It was around this time last summer or leading up to it that I purchased two
tickets to see Bob Dylan live. The concert was to take place at a minor
league ball park in Kansas City. I live in Arizona. Still do in fact.

It’s funny what temporary insanity will make you do. I define temporary
insanity as hope. It’s funny what hope will make you do.

One minute I’m washing the dinner dishes, planning tomorrow’s chores, the
next I’m buying two round trip airplane tickets for my sister and I from
Phoenix Sky Harbor to Kansas City International Airport. I’m reserving a
hotel room and a rental car. I’m maxxing out a credit card I told my
husband I cut in half three months ago. I’m preparing myself to meet him,
because of course, I’m going to meet him. Hope and wine. Funny.

Language for the most part is unreliable. Words will never be able to match
up with thought. Add some music though. Add a guitar and some harp. A
keyboard in the background and suddenly your head hits the stars when you
stand. The entire history of literature pales by comparison. Nobody can
address both the world of poetry and the world of music like Bob Dylan can.
He turns a five minute song into a feeling I can hear for miles.

Kansas City was muggy. The people were somewhat kind but for the most part
indifferent. My sister and I almost got our asses kicked by some of the
more aggressive fans. But we saw Bob Dylan from the front row. We were
close enough to count the tears of sweat as they dropped from the tip of his
nose. We were close enough to watch his spit fly and count the rivulets in
each of his teeth. We were right there. And man, he was beautiful. He
looked like a divine character out of some great book, one that a mad and
fantastical mind created. He moved across the stage like he was on strings.
Like a puppet, but, a puppet by his own volition. And when he leaned
over the keyboard when he began to sing when his eyes narrowed and his focus
honed in, I thought I could almost see wings spread like glory across his
shoulders.

We’ve traveled two more times since then, my sister and I. Within driving
distance this time. We saw him in San Diego last October and again in Las
Vegas this past March. We’re both still married or on the brink of marriage
anyway.

I want to go see him again. The closest city I can find this tour is Texas.
My sister wouldn’t be able to go this time. I’d have to make the trek
alone. I don’t have the money, but, if it weren’t for this wine seeping
through my brain I’d start applying for new credit cards right now. It’s
funny. Yet here I am back on this hope and wine. My merry-go-round of
temporary insanity. Round and round and round it goes. Where it stops,
well, you know the rest.

Past midnight now. The neighbor’s have turned their television off.
Goodnight neighbors, hope you enjoy your rerun dreams. It’s dead silent. I
can’t even hear the crickets anymore. Goodnight crickets. Sleep tight,
don’t let the bed bugs bite.

It’s officially May 24th two thousand and five. Bob Dylan’s 64th birthday.
Happy birthday baby. There are approximately 70 billion stars out right
now. And each one shining just for you.

~ Lisa Zaran

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, May 23rd, 2005 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~