Should, Should Not

by Lisa Zaran

It took about five years for me to realize I am not in love with Bob Dylan.

Don’t get me wrong, I do love him, in fact I’m completely devoted to his music, his xm radio show, his books, Tarantula and Chronicles. I’ve read every biography written about his life. I own his complete songbook and about twice as many bootlegs. I have seventeen versions of Visions of Johanna alone. I could have more but there came a time when I thought this should be enough, but is it ever enough? What if the next time he performs this song live he changes a lyric?

I know I’m not the only one. Thousands of women and men feel about him much the same way as I do, some probably more.

I fell so hard and so fast. It wasn’t a slow process. I didn’t see him and think, oh, he’s so cool, I think I like him. I heard the track Lovesick one afternoon while folding laundry. Two years later I owned forty albums. The summer after that I spent eight hundred dollars to fly to Kansas City to see him in person convinced that September 4th, 2004 was a fated day in history.

What a shock when I realized how inaccessible he was. I actually thought I’d meet him. I also thought I would be among his youngest fans, I was 34 at the time. As I battled my way across the field of Community America Ballpark, through bodies and threats, I was amazed to see children, some as young as eight years old wearing Bob Dylan t-shirts and donning black cowboy hats.

Something I did not expect was to be greeted by such an outright enigmatic creature. From the way he walked, buoyant-like, to the way he dressed in all black except for a slight splash of color peeking out from the chest of his coat. His expression defied his mannerisms which were quick and light hearted. Somber faced he either looked down at his keyboard or up at the air in front of him or directly at a band member, never at us, his audience.

He drove through his setlist while I patiently watched, taking in every aspect of his face and actions that I could, the earnest eyebrows, the almost imperceptible nods to his guitarist, his sober-minded fingers as they struck the keyboard, even the droplets of perspiration that fell from the tip of his nose. I swung my hips, lamely attempted to sing along, but did not look away, and tried my best not to blink. Not only did he live up to my expectations, he superseded them. He was everything I believed I wanted. At that moment, standing ten feet away, I fell in love with Bob Dylan.

A month later I found myself standing outside Cox Arena in San Diego, California to see him again. This time, I brought my daughter along. She wore a bright red t-shirt with a current picture of Bob ironed onto the front. Most people thought she was cute and said so. Look at that little girl! How cute. Little did they realize that she was, at twelve years old, a committed fan. She knew his entire repertoire, in fact, could even play a few licks on her acoustic guitar.

Seated farther away this time because I’d purchased tickets too late to make the floor, Dylan came through as valuably as he had in Kansas. His voice was strong, his back, which was turned to the area my daughter and I sat, was a new thing of interest. I watched as he bent his spine to bring his mouth to the microphone. I studied the angle of his legs, especially his knees as he bent and shifted from left to right, every now and then, took a
step back.

I listened to the songs but not so much the songs as the way he sung them. I tried to catch abnormalities in the lyrics, key changes, pauses where no pause used to be. Seeing him in San Diego only confirmed my love. Although by this time, I knew I wouldn’t meet him. Meeting him was no longer imperative. Knowing him as much as I could by listening was.

In March, 2005 at the Aladdin Theatre For The Performing Arts my sister and I managed to get tickets for row 3. Huey Lewis and his date sat directly in front of us. What a talker that one. Several times I had my hand poised above his shoulder, ready to tap roughly and tell him to shut up. Please.

The evening punctuated by interruptions from the staff asking celebrity-type people whether or not they would like something from the bar, though nothing was more compelling to me than seeing Dylan on stage, not even Huey’s ongoing babble could blemish the music or cause a rift in the ecumenical wonder that was Dylan. To complain would have been a waste of time.

Nor could it taint the immature feelings I’d developed. Love doesn’t expire. It’s possible it goes into hibernation sometimes, circumstances may impair it for awhile but love, once it exists, always exists.

Bob Dylan isn’t perfect, but in March 2005 nobody on earth could have convinced me otherwise. He seemed infallible, beyond fault, the pinnacle of perfection from his creative output all the way down the line to some photo’s I saw of him walking beside his horses on a ranch in Minnesota.

I was unable to attend a Fall show. Dylan was in Europe. But, that didn’t stop me from following the tour online, looking up the set lists as they became available and reading the reviews from Bologna to Dublin. Certain that had I been there he might have played something different. Envious when I’d read that he had. Wondering in the unspoiled part of my mind whether or not he missed the United States.

It wasn’t until April 2006 I was able to attend another concert. Luckily I had Martin Scorsese’s documentary, No Direction Home, and announcements of an upcoming xm satellite radio show which Bob would host to keep me distracted.

It had been five years since Dylan had visited Arizona. My jubilation was beyond encroachment. Everyone who knew me was aware of my plans, which were to secure the closest seat I could to the stage and then to follow the Sun City show south to Tucson.

I managed row three even though I had the pre-sale password and two browsers open in order to be among the first to buy tickets. Indebted to the love I felt, this was a disappointment. I wanted the first row. I wanted my face to be among the first faces Dylan might see on the off chance he decided to look down at us. I thought, if he could see me, could look into my eyes, he’d know how enduring I was, how established I was in his music and in the roots of his songs. How, just like him, I was there for the escape of daily life. How easy it would be for him to notice this in me, if only he could see it.

Perhaps I’m biased but I don’t think I’m being excessive when I say Sun City was an exclusively brilliant concert. The set list was unique, the crowd was exceptional, the songs were exhilirating, even Dylan seemed pleased as he stood center stage after his encore, stepping to the edge and blowing kisses to the crowd.

A second minor league baseball tour has recently been announced. I haven’t found a city close enough for me to attend a show. It seems more east coast this time and I suppose if it were me, I wouldn’t want to come to the desert mid summer either.

I never expected to fall for an icon. I never thought I would be somebody that would completely humble myself in the presence of another person. Love doesn’t subtract, there is nothing taken away. To be honest, if I could afford to give up my life, leave my children, abandon my job and husband to follow Bob Dylan I would. It’s a dreamers thought and my sister always says I’m a dreamer.

But, I love my husband and I would die for my children. I don’t technically love my job but I like it. I like getting up in the morning and having somewhere to go, knowing that people are expecting me. I like the unbidden shows of affection I receive from my friends. I love Bob Dylan. I love him more than anybody else I’ve never met but feel some stellar connection to, but I’m not in love with him. He’s like a monolith. He’s so huge in my mind, I might be too frightened to actually face him.

One of my favorite poets, Czeslaw Milosz, wrote a poem in 1961 called Should, Should Not. The first line goes: A man should not love the moon.

The poem goes on to explain what a man should and should not do. Another line: A man when he talks should not use words that are dear to him, Or split open a seed to find out what is inside it.

It was that final line that caused a shift in me. I could love an icon but, I didn’t have to split him open to find out what is inside.

This month Dylan will release his forty-fourth studio album, Modern Times. I’m beside myself with anticipation. Like so many others, I’ve already got some ideas on its sound, how it will in all likelihood become another fingerstone in music history, the record of dreams.

I’m hoping to catch another show soon. Maybe he’ll announce a Fall tour and head back to the southwest. By all means possible, I’ll be there, not to steal his heart or invade his mind, not with the intent to alter destiny, his or mine, merely one in the crowd.

5 Responses to “Should, Should Not”

~ This piece was posted on Monday, August 7th, 2006 and was filed under Writing, Featured. You can make comments on it below. ~