Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan is my North Star.

I've said it many times.

It makes complete sense and no sense at all.

Monsieur Dylan is alive and well this morning, somewhere in America I'm guessing.

He does not know that I particularly am alive or that I particularly think this absurd thought of him, but he knows I am very sure that there are people who think this way about him.

He wrote inexplicably great lyrics at a young age with no education beyond the public schooling from the Iron Range town of Hibbing.

He delivered his lines with a magical force beyond the usual human capacity.

He did and he continued and he still does now.

Do you understand this?

And what do you think of a woman like me who thinks she can still make good on a promise that was made to her by a stained glass Jesus and a choir director in a Lutheran Church in Chicago who both looked down at her and told her to sing?

The inexplicable about things unfolding as they should in the time that God has made perfect.

Thank God for Bob Dylan and I'm glad if he is alive and well this morning somewhere with the brilliant boy inside him cloaked in the wisdom of his age, the wily instincts of the fox who has escaped with the farmer's chickens a hundred times, never caught never punished.

My North Star is an illusive feeling of freedom and destiny, of singing for only yourself and God, writing your unselfconscious words and doling out judgement and blessings to all Creation.

Here's me yesterday at Christina v. Bowers' apartment in Minneapolis, working on a new documentary style series of photos and filmed conversations.

Content for the archives, or maybe for youtube.

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