And puts her hands into her back pocket...Betty Davis style. Wow. I really dig that lyric. It's just, sooo...cooool. Dylan at his finest lyricism as he wraps a lasso around the perfect thought and dares you to question his genius. It's not that I really intended to venture into Dylan today. There's always time for that. But this song is spinning on my record player right now, punching a hole through the silence of a Sunday afternoon that is neither sunny, nor cool. It's just a Sunday in June, much accustomed to the gloom as it settles into its neighborly reproach upon the sanctity of our soles. The waves beckon with a forceful shout as only they can, the spray shedding its skin across the limitless confines of dull.
There was just another skip on this song. How that came to bare, I haven't the slightest idea. The needle is new, beyond question. The storage is consistent, the vinyl nestled into its sleeping chamber that doubles as a colorless sleeve. Clean, spotless, yet there one is again. 180's laugh with the fright of an October night where rain casts out the shadows. Methinks there's something greater at play here.
I grab the flimsy little brother, out of West Germany, a print that has found its way across the great expanse of an ocean and 2 continents and settled into a slumber in my collection. Bob Dylan has so many brothers, they know no bounds. The sound is slightly off, not nearly as fetching nor deliberate. There is a tentative approach. Unsure of its place in the lineup. It's just not possible to help. There exist only so many, and they must be accepted with relish. I guess we have ventured into Dylan without even knowing it. That can happen when the time idly pursues its goal of finding the next hour.
Portland is a pretty cool town. The sort of place that leans in with a whisper and says, "Hey. I know you. Come. It's ok. The possibilities are...possible. Hmmm?"
Until then. See you.
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