Bob Dylan at 51 Maryanne Hannan
July 1, 1999
Me, not him. He was always older than I, and you could tell by his success: how he earned millions making records I used minimum wage dollars to buy. And he knew so much more- It would take me years to grasp how God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son." Still, we shared an eerie overlap. Surely not everyone knew back then you didn't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blew. So, I remain faithful, and follow him, hoping he just might tell us the truth. Last night, for instance, from high in the packed stadium I could see on his tired face the delicate satisfaction commensurate with once having wondered how it feels under a brand new leopard-skin pillbox hat. Some things he does for the crowd, others for himself, and I pretend I can see the difference because finally, like him, I'm an artist. I don't want to work on Maggie's farm no more, but here again, he was ahead of me. He knew you couldn't tell them the sun's not yellow, it's chicken without musical accompaniment or a voice that set them buzzing. By now, most people know you gotta serve somebody, but who can show them how? Not me, not Bob Dylan, when even the butler, he's got something to prove and deep down, we're stuck inside the same old blues- Oh, Mama, can this really be the end?
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