Saturday, June 20, 2009

Carnaby Street

"It ain't the melodies that are important, man, it's the words," Bob Dylan once said. Out along the roads of Central Oregon, sometimes training alone, sometimes in the company of others, it's words and not melodies that rush through my mind. These mix and match, sometimes meshing, sometimes mashing - providing an image, matching a mood, to the moment.

Like the time high above pinyon and ponderosa Eddie told me to...
Rise Up, Find my direction magnetically.
Rise Up, Throw down my ace in the hole.

Or like the time Kim softly whispered the words to Bull in the Heather into my ear.

tell me that yr burning for me
tell me that you can't afford me
time to tell your r dirty story
time f'r turning over and over
time f'r turning four leaf clover

betting on the bull in the heather

Or that time Bobby sang that song to Woody:

'Bout a funny old world that's coming along.
Seems sick, and it's tired, it's hungry and it's torn
I looks like it's a dying and it's hardly been born

Arresting artwork stolen from Shepard Fairey's personal collection.

Or like the time cruising the back roads out to Jackson's Bay on the Western Coast of New Zealand's South Island when Jack let out his secret,

"You see, the whole world is out there, like an oyster for me to open. And the pearl is there, the pearl is there!"

Or like the time Dylan kept talking on and on in riddles about a friend of his. He not busy being born, Is busy dying.

Then he left, just like that. Only his final words hung around. If you see her, say hello.

These words kept will remind me, Eddie.

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