Dylan's Face

Since that afternoon in 1963 when I first picked up and looked at his Freewheelin' album, I've had a love affair with Bob Dylan's face. He was considerably younger then--22 to be exact--and despite the soft innocence his face possessed, I had a feeling there was a whole lot more going on. I don't mean that I was attracted like a teen girl, or a fan, I mean that I was drawn to its aesthetic beauty.

I bought the album because I'd heard Don't Think Twice, It's All Right at a friend's house and was blown away. I was new to folk music and it was Dylan who popped that cherry for me. I'd been playing on a guitar, although I didn't know chords or anything else about it, but when I heard Dylan play, I knew I had to learn. I still haven't mastered that rolling picking pattern though. I can play a lot of others, and I've even invented a few of my own, but that one still evades me. But then, I've never had anyone just sit down and show it to me. Any volunteers? Anyway, back to Dylan's face, because, well, this entry isn't supposed to be about his music.

Through the years Dylan's face has changed for a number of different reasons. Age is the most obvious, but cultural trends played a small role (hair, sunglasses, facial hair, etc.), as well as his fascinating ability to invent and re-invent himself. Regardless of the changes, his face has qualities that mesmerize me: the smooth, heart-shaped jawline, the long, slightly hooked nose, the impish mouth, and his shocking blue eyes. When I first discovered that his eyes were blue, I was a bit puzzled. I mean, he just didn't fit the blue-eyed man image. I'd assumed they were brown.

My favorite "look" was that 1965-66 Ray-Bans, black turtleneck look. He's not a big guy anyway, but his thinness and his head full of JFed curls gave him a Chaplinesque quality that worked for him at the time. Do you remember the impact that look had on you the first time you saw a picture of him?

"You know something is happenin', but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones..."

After his motorcycle accident (or drug rehab, depending on which story you believe), he came back looking more like he did at the beginning, except with a bit of a beard. His hair had been tamed, he'd put on a little weight, and he'd taken to wearing wire-rimmed glasses in private. He looked more approachable and less intimidating. By his own account, he was busy raising a family and music was the only way he knew how to put food on the table and make the house payment. It seemed to me that he took an emotional break from the fame he'd attained so quickly, and his face reflected the peace he'd found in upstate New York.

It wouldn't last though. With Dylan nothing ever lasts, except perpetual motion and constant change. The next time I noticed his looks was in Renaldo and Clara. He haphazardly slapped some clown white on his face, lined his eyes with kohl, and peered out menacingly at the audience from under a wide-brimmed hat. And I loved it! The music from this time was especially good: I can't name one bad song on his Blood On The Tracks album. It's still my favorite of his. Yes, I know the LP came out in 1975 and the movie in 1978, but I'm talking about eras here, not a concise timeline.

Even as Dylan has aged I've still loved his face. There's so much character, so much history. Every wrinkle has a story to tell. Those blue eyes have seen so much and that mouth has told us about some of it.

We all age, we all get older. If you can't face that, then you seriously need to grow up. I mean, unless you're still a kid. It's faces like Dylan's that help me to accept and even love my own aging every time I look in the mirror. When I think about it, I'm damned proud to be aging right alongside Dylan!

Nothing Since Last Wednesday? Really?

I can't believe it has been nearly a week since my last post. I meant to make several by now, but, well, you know how things go sometimes. All, or mostly all of my excuses are reasons--and most of them are good.

Besides all of the writing I've been doing on Book Three (or for Book Three, I should say, as it's mostly research, notes, and character interviews), I got a new web job that's pretty exciting and a lot of fun. And I've started getting ready for Lynette's reception a week from Saturday, following her book signing. The only bad thing is that I'm having a little trouble getting my body adapted to the new meds I'm on, but that's a learning experience anyway.

Ville and I took Dr. Scott to the airport in Tulsa this morning, and that's always fun because when the three of us are together we create our own little sitcom. I've gotten to where I actually like taking him to the airport. Fun little road trips with friends. What could be better? Even when you feel like crap on a cracker. I figure I'd rather feel crappy with my friends than all by myself, so I never back out at the last minute (even when everything in my being screams, "Tell them you just can't do it this time!".

I admit this is short, but I have some things to do. Until next time!

What's Your Blues Name?

Mine is "Blind Boy Bailey".

Two More of My Weird-Assed Dreams

Dream #1-Friday: I was in New York City, dressed in black velvet and a big, droopy hat. I was sitting in a little cafe in the Village, listening to some cat at my table going on about how he touches fire -- I think he was Jack Kerouac. I took a sip of wine and looked out the window at the city and thought, "I could live here." Kerouac continued talking, his words becoming a pleasant drone that lulled me into a state of deep contentment. A guy at the table with us dealt some cards and asked me to breathe on them. I did, and I woke up.

This one turned out to be prophetic. The "touching fire" was the pain I've been in. The cards represented the "hand I've been dealt" concerning that pain. The breathing on them was my ability to breathe after receiving pain meds later that day.

Dream #2-Today: I was at Frank Sinatra's house and he was getting ready for a party. I and some other people were in a smaller room, like a den, and I was showing off, singing The Lady is a Tramp, really vamping it up, dancing a humorous bump-and-grind, and everyone was laughing. When it was over I fell back on the floor, laughing so hard, covering my eyes with my hands. Suddenly everyone stopped laughing and I looked up to see Milton Berle smiling down at me.

"Oops," I said, and he held his hand out to help me up off of the floor.
"Not bad," he said. "Did you ever think about getting on television?"
I rubbed my butt and replied, "Yeah, but it burned my ass."
He burst out laughing and I woke up.

The dancing represents my new pain-free condition due to the meds. The laughter is my happiness about that. Easy-peasy.