I buyed me
a little dog
Color it
was brown
I learned
him how to whistle
Sing and
dance and run
His legs
they were 14 yards long
His ears
they were quite broad
Around the
world in a half a day
And on him
I could ride
Sing Tattle
O’Day
I buyed me
a little bull
About four
inches high
Everybody
feared him
That ever
heard him cry
When he
began to bellow
It made
such a melodious sound
Until all the
walls in London town
Came
tumbling to the ground
Sing Tattle
O’Day
I buyed me
a flock of sheep
I thought
they were all wethers
Sometimes
they yielded wool
Sometimes
they yielded feathers
I think
mine are the very best sheep
For
yielding me increase
For every
full and change of the moon
They bring
both lambs and geese
Sing Tattle
O’Day
I buyed me
a little box
About four
acres square
I filled it
full of guineas
And silver
so fair
Oh now I’m
bound for Turkey
And in my
big chest pocket
I carry my
little box
Sing Tattle
O’Day
I buyed me
a little hen
All
speckled gay and fair
I sat her
on an oyster shell
She hatched
me out a hare
The hare it
sprang a handsome horse
Full fifteen hands high
And him
that tells a bigger tale
Would have
to tell a lie
Sing Tattle
O’Day
Yesterday something happened. I've been feeling an underlying sense of progressive depression and fatigue for some time now, and yesterday morning I just didn't want to get out of bed and chose instead to enter into a form of meditation and soon drifted back into sleep.
I dreamed a dream that didn't make me sad. Because I was dreaming that I was in bed, I didn't completely realize that I was dreaming until I woke up. In the dream, I was awakened from sleep by a frightening commotion and loud voices and a tempest strong enough to force my body to move down my bed in the direction of my open bedroom window.
For a few seconds, I fought being moved from my bed and then remembered a dream I had in October of 1998 while traveling on the coast of Northern California. In that dream, I didn't realize that I was dreaming either because the dream also involved me being awakened from sleep while in bed. In that dream, I dreamed that I awoke to the sound of Hell's Angels on motorcycles outside the rented cottage where I was staying on the bluffs above the Pacific Ocean in southern Mendocino County. I awoke in terror, feeling myself being pulled by my feet from my bed by an invisible force at the foot of the bed. The feeling in that dream was similarly and oddly familiar, and felt like a memory from my childhood. The dream room in that previous nightmare was filled with a subdued golden light which should have been reassuring but was not.
Still thinking that I was awake, as I fought the tempest and recalled that previous nightmare which had seemed to be based on a childhood memory, I noticed that everything in my vision was illuminated by a white light, and my distress shifted to the curiosity of lucid dreaming.
Understanding clearly that it was within my power to make a decision to relax and see what would happen, I did just that. Instead of finding myself flying out the open window, it was as if the tempest went through me, and then I woke up.
I've felt disoriented and aimless since 2008 when Richard died. Or was it when the First Gulf War started in August of 1990 or was it in December of 1970 when Richard returned from Vietnam or was it somewhere way back in my childhood?
When I woke up this morning, I found that I suddenly had the ability to focus my energy enough to sit down at my work table for the first time in a long long time and listen to Another Self Portrait while I prepared a plan for warping my inkle loom and then warped the loom and began weaving.
Listening to Another Self Portrait this morning inspired me to look through my CDs for the rest of the Bootleg Series, and I found I was missing Vols. 6 and 7 and promptly bought them both on iTunes and began assembling a Bootleg Series random playlist for listening while I am doing creative work. So far the playlist is over 10 hours long!
After August 1990, as I began to exhibit symptoms of PTSD similar to those which many Vietnam veterans began to experience at that time, I found that preparing to do creative work only upset me. What was once the source of my solace had been transformed into a dark place that I could no longer tolerate.
Although I had frequently been inspired by listening to Bob Dylan's voice in the past, I haven't been able to bring myself to do that for years when I have sat down in an attempt to do art work. In the past few weeks, I've come to realize that I can listen to the alternative versions and live versions of songs sung by Bob Dylan and can feel something new instead of reliving the past.
P.S. I'm still playing my ukulele daily, inspired by George Harrison:
