Projections’ draft at Dylan’s performance in Santiago on April 29th (2019)

Fernando Vilas, the acquaintance that was sitting  by my side, made me change “was” to “is” in the farewell phrase of the Bob Dylan’s concert on Monday, April 29th.  I thought of “heart,” and pronounced it, like in Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.”  Charlie Sexton, when I said “You are great (pronounced in the wrong way) was surprised (he was convinced I was in a minor league, and I had been nagging) and thought something like “this one got wrong in a right  way “. The phrase I finally issued was  ”You are great” (I pronounced “grit,”) your Heart … is … a Legend.” The public, or someone in the public, (Who knows why? Galicia is nazi, and forms part of a country which is also nazi)  got furious. “Dylan sucked this guy off at the Chelsea Hotel.” Rooms’ visions.  Dylan shrinked. The guy sitting two seats away insisted and shouted (pointing to him, we were all seated close to the  stage ) “this guy (Bob) is like Janis Joplin”.  I saw it, but the image of the caricature at the rua del Franco came across. The boy insisted “This can not end this way.” And he explained to Bob: “Your heart” (“what he has been saying (because I had been making  comments about “Honest with me” and “Make you feel my love,” as statements  of love to prostitutes), “your feelings”,  (“your feelings,” perhaps Fernando Vilas there) are a” legend,” “are legendary,” ”are a legacy… for humanity.” The boy looked at me and asked “This is so. Isn’t it?” And I turned the  head up to him, I  raised my hand, I grimaced and said “Yes, it’s exactly so” And Dylan said “Auch! how nice.” These two are friends …” And I had been thinking  the boy was with a girl,  and maybe the girl was me.  The boy, sitting two seats away, had been watching everything I said. “You should not be ashamed,” he sentenced (to Bob, that had had the air of sizing down the erotic stuff of his work  during the whole concert).

– “You’re  the perfect definition of ‘Howl’” (And Bob: “Oh, that was my friend.” (“I know,” (the photo in the cemetery)).

– The association between “Scarlet Town” and “Cities of the Red Light” (and I corrected myself, “of the Red Night,” and Bob said “You really like red lights, don’t you?” “Me too.” (Hitting his chest with his index).

– “What are you trying to do, a single song (out of twenty), (a) Bob Dylan orange juice (and Charlie Sexton slightly moved  his head encouraging me to go on and I added “concentrated “(and Bob thought to himself ” Auch, this one knows  I’m Bob Dylan, “the global  rock and roll brand.”’

– And I told him that, shortly after Franco’s death, a guy had written three books about him and commented that he composed “Macho” and pissing songs (Fer told me to say  instead of “cabronas” anything, and I said “pissing”), Dylan retreated again.  “Treat him well,” shouted someone in the audience. And I added “Love songs,” and he recomposed.

– “There’s a lot of flirting … in the meadows,” (On the subject of “Old guys should not fall in love,” a play by Galician writer Alfonso Rodriguez Castelao, the main guy among Galician Independence theorists)’ and Bob said “Auch, this one knows I fooled him you when I pronounced that phrase. (“There are lovers in the meadows,” in “Lovesick.”)

– And assimilated “If you knew my feelings for you, you would be honest with me” to “Make you feel my love.” (And quoted Cohen’s “Inner feelings,” and Sexton liked it). (The line is :“I don’t believe in inner feelings, inner feelings come and go.”)

– And I do not know what I meant by “Cold Irons bound” (that I wanted to meet Sexton again?).

– And in “Trying to reach heavens before they close the door,” someone said “You’re obsessed with heaven,” and Dylan looked at me and answered  something like “Well, it’s even worse in your case” (It seems he had been distracted and thought that I had made the comment).

– And in “Gotta serve somebody,” to which he only made the briefest of allusions, he turned to look at me, while playing, smiled and said “I’m serving the Lord.” (Though it might have been an hallucination, because the piano he was hiding behind was just in front of me and I actually had a lateral view of him doing that).

– And in “It’s ain’t me babe,” when voice and music became so messy, I shouted “Please, do not make that to that song,” really screaming, and someone in the audience repeated “Please …,” the same way my Facebook friend Irene Schiffer makes it sound in her texts by Messenger), and Sexton was surprised, maybe because it was sounding good to him, may be because he had thought I didn’t know the song, the strange song Dylan had engaged in.

(There is not much privacy in the internet here).

At the end, talking about Alexandria Ocasio – Cortez he (the real Bob Dylan, or Bob Dylan’s hologram) stated he couldn’t do it, but might be I could file a complaint, on my own, (on age discrimination in the American Constitution: Article ii), section I, clause v, setting the legal age for holding presidency at 35, I found later), just a suggestion, and, perhaps, in the future, have some fun the three of us, together, at her party’s offices. We both agreed we liked her, (I’ve always thought, at least since I saw the video, that she should perform more as the Bostonian intellectual she  really is, not the Bronx’s whore she acts like when she is nervous), but she actually  wouldn’t  make any difference. (According to the American Constitution, Alexandria Ocasio can’t run for vicepresidency, either, because of the proceedings ruled in the Twelfth Amendment: as a Black, as an Indigenous, as an Spanish, though she defines herself as “an European,”(would like to know what she means with that), as a woman, as young age, she’s really fucked up). (I recognized in the way AOC points to herself during a hearing, in April,  the gesture of another (Latin) woman (too), an illegal immigrant, I had met, in February; now, reading this, I see I’ve written about Bob also having pointed to himself  in the same way in “Scarlet Town.” Might be, because of  such a long  time under meds, I had some problem with auto-reference).

The day after, reading the English Wikipedia, I found that Senator Bernie Sanders was born in 1941, the same year that Bob Dylan was. And posted in Charlie Sexton’s Messenger that Bob should be forced to run for the US presidency in 2020, because he was the only choice for beating Trump. Other fans have told me it’s some wonderful day-dreaming, but impossible. Bob would  never stoop to run as a candidate (sic). (Though Mario Vargas Llosa, a Nobel Prize in Literature also, did). (In fact, I interrupted him when he was doing a great voice performance of I don’t remember which asking why he didn’t kill Trump, if he was so cool (he could do it, I meant he had the means and the power), but didn’t get an answer. (There was some kind of love and hate relationship from my part all along the concert; at some moment of the Alexandria’s talk he was about to step down the stage to beat me, but got saved by someone in the public).

It doesn’t matter. Everybody knows he has composed amazing songs of every kind: http://www.bobdylan.com/songs/all-i-really-want-do/

Here is another sample of his use of “enumerations”: http://www.bobdylan.com/songs/no-time-

When everything ended he wanted to talk about Leonard Cohen (I told him I preferred Leonard Cohen songs to his, I was more attuned to Leonard Cohen’s quieter mood, (not quite sure about that now, they’re just different)) but Fernando  cheated me into acting some kind of Leonard Cohen’s pantomime. The boy wanted to join them at the hotel, but I said they were playing the next day in Portugal, and mentioned “Cold Irons Bound.” That was a mistake. They had five days ahead without  performances.  I got the papers with the lyrics put them in order and Fer said “You see, he is a teacher,” Bob seemed impressed about that (the old trick with the papers), and I asked him mentally if he had ever met Daido Loori (I had seen a pic of Daido and Allen Ginsberg somewhere), and we got in touch for an instant, but I  got wrong again and passed to mimick him an instant before leaving, Fer pointed it to him, (“That’s you,” signaling me). I have a problem with that. Whenever I’m nervous or about to be in shame, I tend  a lot to use Bob Dylan’s “ticks,” tricks and attitudes as some sort of “defence mechanism,” become “dylanesque”. It started in 1999, when I had my first Dylan’s hallucination. I saw him in the stage, acting as starting to play a song, and thought he asked me “Do you know this one?” And I answered “No”. He repeated the same thing with another song, and I didn’t recognized that one either. He shuddered and said “It’s not important.” (Someone had been teasing me for not knowing his work, just knowing “Dylan’s bird,” and someone wanted me to see   the “real Bob”). But that wasn’t, probably, the real, I mean the “physical” Bob Dylan, either: we were looking for our seats, Calamaro hadn’t started playing, and Bob had nothing to do on the stage.  Mightbe, like Saint Thomas Aquinas and Santa Teresa, he is in the capacity to practice bilocation. Maybe that “beat,” besides to “drumming” and “being beaten,” relates to “beatitude.”

My wife told me to get tickets again for October,  but there  were not shows that month. The Never Ending Tour just lasts four months in Europe, from April to July, so I got tickets for Hamburg. It will be my third Bob Dylan concert. I know a woman from Nuremberg who has attended twenty two, and who knows another woman who has attended more than ninety. As I have panic for airports I’ve got an assistant, a guy who owns a small company of geriatric assistance. Instead of looking for someone, he told me he was ready to come with me himself. He was eager to watch the concert. I’m sixty one. I’ve been for twenty five years in and out psychiatric meds and have been meds free since last December (2018). I drink a lot, have Alprazolam, 1 mg. for sleeping, got memory issues, and I’m  scared to death about dementia.


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