I suppose the summer of 2019 will go down as the apotheosis of my Bob Dylan obsession. I have been stuck on Dylan's "gospel years," for months now. I discovered Clinton Heylin's "Trouble in Mind," "Judas," "Man Behind the Shades," and Dylan's "Recording Sessions," this summer and have read them all as if they are sacred texts. I often go back to them after an intense listening session. Heylin is the most obsessive of obsessive Dylan-ologists. He knows the man, the work, he is not afraid to praise and condemn. I don't always agree with him, but he makes me think, makes me listen with fresh ears.
Last night I had a nightmare. I was "messing with Dylan's grain," what, yes, Dylan was in my dream, he had these large vats of grain, and I, for some unknown reason, was messing with them. Dylan found out, he was furious, and he came after me with all the power he could conjure. Dylan came at me like a demonic force. I was a trembling ball of fear. I curled up into a fetal position and Dylan rained down on me like a hard, metallic rain.
I woke up, heart racing, fear shooting through my cells. What to do? I put more Dylan on the box this morning. The man has gotten into me. I can't shake him. No one fires up my imagination like Dylan. No one else has the same power to open my head. A master. Scares the shit out of me too. Why oh why did I mess with the man's grain?