It’s a blazingly hot Sunday afternoon here. Temperatures have rocketed up to 100 degrees and everybody’s feeling the heat.
All tagged Bob Dylan
Ain't No False Prophet
Through the quiet air of a family evening the songs from Rough and Rowdy Ways float from the stereo. We sit gathered together in the absence of our son who has departed for London Town.
Idle Themes
Solitude has taken up residence in our dwelling in the precious minutes before the children and the hound are awake. My husband long ago drove off to work, leaving me free to wander through memory’s halls.
Resonances
The past few weeks have been marked by resonances. Voices from poetry, history or theatre have figured so strongly that they are escaping from my mind, ready to leap onto the written page.
Buckets Of Tears
Reader, we didn’t catch that plane. Hemmed in and trapped by a vast body of water, land and distance and current circumstance we cancelled everything on Saturday.
Sugar and Candy
The sunset streets unfold around me as I move towards the freeway listening to Handy Dandy and thinking about America. He has long been a favourite of mine this insouciant protagonist full of braggadocio and vulnerability in equal measure whose very name itself means simple and easy
Nothing Is But What Is Not
I sat in one of my favourite LA haunts doing nothing in particular a couple of days ago. It has been an unusual few weeks; discordancy has been the Lord of Misrule.
Belated Birthday Wishes
It was Mr Dylan’s eightieth birthday a couple of weeks ago. It’s been an interlude where I’ve read a few truly wonderful pieces from those who love the man and his work.
A Slow Train
I’m on the beach again with the ocean roaring in my ears. Today I hear darker voices calling through the sinew and muscle of the waves; I shiver as the cold water curls around my toes.
Easy Answers?
We are hours away from the beginning of the new month and I sit gazing at my Parisian calendar, dreaming of different times.
Voices of Love and Theft
I’m teaching Virgil again. It‘s hard to believe that it’s been ten years since I last taught this greatest of poets. Although the school room has turned into a kitchen table and the student is my fifteen year old son rather than a group of girls from London,
Shining Aspiration
At this time of annual beginning, the old year has scarcely departed and the new is still removing his shoes in the doorway. I always spare a thought for the deity Janus, the Roman god of beginnings in this first month.