(ballad of a thin man)

Is it Sunday yet?
I have a (sort of) date with Bob Dylan, and am ready to rip into the night with both teeth, ten fingers and whatever else is necessary. Insert sharp intake of breath here. Since burning Neil Young off my airy list of "to see before death", I've been hungering for Dylan and Cohen. One, two, three bold checks beside each groundbreaking name and then one facet of my life is complete. Dear Leonard Cohen, please grace Winnipeg with your presence and I will be forever indebted.

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Have you ever dreamt of somebody, as-yet faceless/nameless who will serve you tea in bed, and smile when you wear deadened leaves in your hair? Somebody who will lay down in a golden wheat field with you and remain there for hours talking about both the least and the most significant things? Somebody who will scale a tree with you during that ashen hour just before morning slithers into existance? Somebody who likes cats and doesn't think that you are crazy when you talk to them for long stretches of time? Somebody that gathers you into their arms and loves you more when you suggest black olives and a bottle of merlot for dinner? I know I have.

The night starts here. I want to be reminded of summer, and of water and light and laughter and breath. I want to desire taking happiness in like tiny sips of air so that I might spread it out; prolongue it; keep it pristine as it is. I want worn wood and lanky windows and expanses of space and coffee brewing at all hours and bookshelves flanking every room and gargantuan closets and nights spent drifting by the fireplace and scandalously late breakfasts, and so on in a similar vein. I don't care if all these elements are shabby and small and worn and used and laughable. I think that they are exactly perfect and I wouldn't ask for any more or any less.

Off to make a living, all night every night,
RB.