A medical term. Plicate: being folded, tucked, or ridged, especially like a fan. Not to be confused with placate.

Still thinking about The Neverending Story and Bob Dylan's Neverending Tour and Charlie Chaplin and "The Dictator."

And current events.

In the end of the book, Bastian cannot remember his own name, but Atreyu (his mirror image) steps in and makes a promise to complete Bastian's unfinished stories.

A younger friend of mine commented that she was mourning the disappearance of Bob Dylan as she listened the cuts that have been released from "Triplicate." She said she was grateful to have all his previous work to listen to.  She asked me for an explanation.  I don't have one.

All I know is that I keep hearing the sound of Bob Dylan's voice in my mind and my heart.  That's good enough for me.

Playing with words today.  Triplicate.  Threefold.  Triptych.  Fans. Covers. Prayers like rhymes.  Liner notes from "John Wesley Harding":

There were three kings and a jolly three too. The first one had a broken nose, the second, a broken arm and the third was broke. "Faith is the key!" said the first king. "No, froth is the key!" said the second. "You're both wrong," said the third, "the key is Frank!

"... With your holy medallion which your fingertips plicate ..."

Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands

Bob Dylan

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who could they get to carry you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

I've discovered others / 1968 -- 19 years old

p. 26
"Person with Helpers"
(California clay)

Inspired by:

Bob Dylan -- 1962
The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan -- 1963
The Times They Are a-Changin' -- 1964
Another Side of Bob Dylan -- 1964
Bringing It All Back Home -- 1965
Highway 61 Revisited -- 1965
Blonde on Blonde -- 1966





1967





On December 8, 1970, R returned from Vietnam. He telephoned from San Francisco International Airport around 3 a.m. I drove north on Highway 101 in the darkness. It's a long story after that. The story isn't over. It continues one day at a time, 39 years to this day where Oboe looks into the early morning sun:

















Celebrating the life of Liam Clancy:

Sleepless Woman / 1968 -- 19 years old

"Sleepless Woman With Moon And Birds," chalk pastel on paper.

(page 24)











Oboe in the winter sun:

a sense of peace / October 14, 1968 -- 19 years old

Am I my mind, I ask myself again
and watch images that race
beyond me into the crazy
whirling mindless self
that occupies the
emptiness
of
me

(page 23)





1967





Today is the Feast of St. Nicholas. As I understand from what I've read, this is a secular holiday when celebrated in the Netherlands. It's a celebration "not about belief or non-belief, but a faith in the capacity of people to find pleasure in each other and in their lives." Those are the words of Tolbert McCarroll, the author of A Winter Walk.

Sunrise:

Remembering the stories where children could go into other worlds / 1967 -- 18 years old

where things were different
than they always are
here

(page 21)





1967





The album covers are getting ahead of the poetry, so I'm going to try something different -- posting the Bob Dylan album cover(s) that coincide with the time each poem was written. Otherwise, I'm all over the place emotionally, and my guess is that it is confusing to the reader. I may or may not go back and revise the previous posts. That's what I love about blogging. It gives me free rein in the creative process.

A few days ago, I became aware of water dripping from the ceiling near the desk where I usually work on my blog. While I was upstairs asking my neighbor to turn her water off, the light bulb in the fixture that lights my desk got wet and then exploded. I keep finding little pieces of glass in the vicinity of that light fixture. Fortunately, the water damage is minor; however, now there is a large noisy blue fan in my computer area, placed by water damage technicians. The fan is running 24 hours a day with the goal of drying the ceiling and the space above it. For the most part, Oboe and I are staying as far away from the fan as possible:

When I went out to talk to the ocean

The poems in my head
had all been savagely crumpled
by my mind's hand

(page 19)





1967





Looking to the southwest this afternoon:

"Awake" / 1967 -- 17 years old

Toward the afternoon sky, the dream soared like a child's runaway kite ...

(page 17)





1967





Fifteen years ago, on the morning of December 3, 1994, my mother died suddenly and unexpectedly of a massive heart attack in Gualala, California. I remember driving around in a daze punctuated by waves of tears, listening to Bob Dylan's tape, "Oh Mercy," over and again. My mother loved "Ring Them Bells" from that tape. She loved that he sang, "Ring them bells so the world will know / That God is One." Although she didn't like Bob Dylan when I first began playing his albums in my bedroom in the summer of 1965, she did begin to like Joan Baez after Joan's only son was born. She related to Joan as a mother relates to another mother. In later years, she thanked me for introducing her to Bob Dylan's music. This is for you, Mom, with all my love:



Still makes me smile to remember that my mother liked "Ring Them Bells" so much that she wrote the lyrics out as she heard them and showed them to me. She wore a hearing aid and heard "lilies that bloom" as "sillies that goof."

Ring them bells St. Catherine
From the top of the roof
Ring them from the fortress
For the sillies that goof

My guess is that my mother would have loved the video of Bob Dylan singing "Must Be Santa." My guess is that Richard would have, too. I can see and hear them laughing together.

May there always be laughter and sillies that goof!

"Recurring Dream" / 1967 -- 17 years old

... the door was locked to him from the outside when he lived within himself.

(page 15)





1967





A place to eat and read and visit with friends: