It would be easier to type this without tears, but I’ll do my best.
I was lying on ice here when this came in, my back in spasm owing to a 4 and a half hour dental extravaganza yesterday that’s left me feeling like a construction site where nothing is being built, only demolished, wondering why my body takes everything so hard, and I was listening to Dylan, wishing him happy birthday, as I do, every year, and wishing I were well enough to hold my grandson whom I don’t know when I will be well enough to see in person.
My own birthday is the 26th, just two days away. I grew up being told that the worst month of the year was May, my mother hated it, and one year -- when I was supposed to turn 6 -- my father “took away” my birthday as punishment for my having thrown a temper tantrum in Carl’s Shore Store because I wanted fuzzy slippers for my birthday and my mother said no. That year, I turned 6 to no one except my brother, who whispered it while we brushed our teeth, at side by side by sinks that were pink.
“You’re six to me,” he said, through toothpaste teeth, and then, while spitting into the sink that was pink, “Bob Dylan’s also born in May.”
“What did you say?” I meant to whisper, but instead spit at him.
Wiping his face, he said, “Bob Dylan was also born in May on almost the same day, so it’s a good month, happy birthday,” and he slipped me a crumpled napkin in which was his most favorite thing, a Tastykakes butterscotch krimpet that he’d taken a bite of and that was my sixth birthday cake and until he died when he was 33, and I 30, he always said, “Bin,” (that’s what he called me) “you’ll always be a year younger thanks to Daddy.”
From that day on, Bob Dylan’s birthday had much meaning to me, my brother having offered it as proof that there was some dignity in being born in May. Outside, there was plenty to recommend the month: the willow, full and weeping into the creek, the rhododendrons, my favorite, the dandelions and clover my mother called weeds. Dylan’s birthday became a kind of reprieve from the melancholy feelings that would set it right around my birthday.
Now I have a grandson born in May, so I’ll never again doubt the month as a lucky one. I’ll forever celebrate Dylan’s birthday, and as I do, I always remember how my brother found a way to slip me that Tastykake which I always have in his honor on his birthday, my birthday, and in his memory, on the day he passed away.
So I was lying here on ice, listening to Dylan and wishing him well when your message came in, Patti, and it meant so much to me. That photo is awesome and it’s great to know you were talking about Rimbaud.
Happy birthday to him and thank you for the wonderful singing.
Your work and Bob Dylan’s work are the artistic shining lights in my life. I love the moments when they intersect like at the Nobel Prize ceremony - one of your greatest performances - or on Dark Eyes. The two of you are incredible gifts to the rest of us. I feel so fortunate to live in your time and to have experienced your recorded, written, visual, and performance art so many times.
It would be easier to type this without tears, but I’ll do my best.
I was lying on ice here when this came in, my back in spasm owing to a 4 and a half hour dental extravaganza yesterday that’s left me feeling like a construction site where nothing is being built, only demolished, wondering why my body takes everything so hard, and I was listening to Dylan, wishing him happy birthday, as I do, every year, and wishing I were well enough to hold my grandson whom I don’t know when I will be well enough to see in person.
My own birthday is the 26th, just two days away. I grew up being told that the worst month of the year was May, my mother hated it, and one year -- when I was supposed to turn 6 -- my father “took away” my birthday as punishment for my having thrown a temper tantrum in Carl’s Shore Store because I wanted fuzzy slippers for my birthday and my mother said no. That year, I turned 6 to no one except my brother, who whispered it while we brushed our teeth, at side by side by sinks that were pink.
“You’re six to me,” he said, through toothpaste teeth, and then, while spitting into the sink that was pink, “Bob Dylan’s also born in May.”
“What did you say?” I meant to whisper, but instead spit at him.
Wiping his face, he said, “Bob Dylan was also born in May on almost the same day, so it’s a good month, happy birthday,” and he slipped me a crumpled napkin in which was his most favorite thing, a Tastykakes butterscotch krimpet that he’d taken a bite of and that was my sixth birthday cake and until he died when he was 33, and I 30, he always said, “Bin,” (that’s what he called me) “you’ll always be a year younger thanks to Daddy.”
From that day on, Bob Dylan’s birthday had much meaning to me, my brother having offered it as proof that there was some dignity in being born in May. Outside, there was plenty to recommend the month: the willow, full and weeping into the creek, the rhododendrons, my favorite, the dandelions and clover my mother called weeds. Dylan’s birthday became a kind of reprieve from the melancholy feelings that would set it right around my birthday.
Now I have a grandson born in May, so I’ll never again doubt the month as a lucky one. I’ll forever celebrate Dylan’s birthday, and as I do, I always remember how my brother found a way to slip me that Tastykake which I always have in his honor on his birthday, my birthday, and in his memory, on the day he passed away.
So I was lying here on ice, listening to Dylan and wishing him well when your message came in, Patti, and it meant so much to me. That photo is awesome and it’s great to know you were talking about Rimbaud.
Happy birthday to him and thank you for the wonderful singing.
Warm wishes to all.
As ever,
Robin
Your work and Bob Dylan’s work are the artistic shining lights in my life. I love the moments when they intersect like at the Nobel Prize ceremony - one of your greatest performances - or on Dark Eyes. The two of you are incredible gifts to the rest of us. I feel so fortunate to live in your time and to have experienced your recorded, written, visual, and performance art so many times.