Since I left my country and the people I love in 2003, I never felt quite the same. Lord know I payed some dues getting thru. Tangled up in blue.
I know it ended up bringing me more dept and experience that I could ever have had if I had stayed in Paris. I would have never loved Dylan so much, for example. I know that the words "You say you're looking for womeone who's never weak but always strong. To love you and defend defent weither you are right or wrong. Someone to open each and every door."
would have never struck me so much as it had If I hadn't move to South Africa.
My french friends don't understand me, because they do not understand nothing about nothing. All they know is their little Paris. But I know Hibbing and I know New York for I have visited it in my dreams. I know the world. I try to keep my eyes closed because when I open my eyes all I can see is my stupid school uniform; these stupid things that they are trying to teach us, all this useless and pointless knowledge; the people who call me freak at school because I read books and dig peotry and music and not sport, and you can't even sense if they got any insides, all these pretty people in their ribbons and bows; these people behind heir desks that ain't got any talent and make all the rules for those that got talent, I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.
Yes Ma, what about the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AIN'T REAL
In The liner notes of The Times Theyr Are A-Changing
, Dylan writes:
all pictures, posters an' the like
that're painted for me
ah but I turned
an' the nex' time I looked
the gloves of garbage
had clobbered the canvas
leavin' truckloads of trash
clutterin' the colors
with a blindin' sting
forcin' me t' once again
slam the shutters of my eyes
but also me to wonderin'
when they'll open
much much stronger
than anyone whose own eyes're
aimed over here at mine
"when will he open up his eyes?"
"who him? doncha know? he's a crazy man
he never opens up his eyes"
"but he'll surely miss the world go by"
"nah! he lives in his own world"
"my my then he really must be a crazy man"
"yeah he's a crazy man"
an' so on spangled streets
an' country roads
I hear sleigh bells
far into the field
sing an' laugh
with flickerin' voices
I stop an' smile
an' rest awhile
watchin' the candles
of sundown dim
unnoticed for my eyes're closed"
Day after day, alone on the hill, the man with the foolish grin is standing perfectly still. Nobody wants to know him, they can see he's just a fool.
When I see or hear those lines I think so much about myself that it's making me sad, it's making me mean. And I know that there's something I wanna be saying, that somebody someplace oughta be earing.
When I think about my life I think "Masters Of War", I think "It's Alright Ma" But I also think "Seven Day" and "I shall be realeased" because even tho the rules of the roads have been lodged, it's only people game that I have to dodge and it's alright ma because in seven somthing (It might be days it might be weeks, it might be lifes but I really don't wanna know), she'll be coming and I shall be released. I'm looking for Isis just to tell her I love her.
I so don't give a shit about these people who don't understand what I'm about. They're not like us, they don't dig poetr. All I can feel about them is sadness. The more you know the more you suffer, if I was a bit dumber and a little less love crazy i'd be happy to be with them.
I remember one day at school, it was raining like in the song and we went to seek refuge in the hall of the school. We spent the day there because the teachers didn't want to get wet on the way to their classrooms.
As the 1500 students gathered in the hall and began to play ball games and have great discussions about the girls in their futile porn magasines and the recent sport results, I sat on a corner and put my Highway 61 Revisited in my discman. It was the Highway out of here.
I drove directly to "Queen Jane Approximately", I'll call it america.
The melancoly in the words of Dylan struck me. I had to call the ambulance: I got lucky but it was an accident.
I Felt so out of that whole thing
"Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain
And all of your children start to resent you"
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Do I really understand the meaning of these lines? No, I dont. But I wanted to cry everytime I heard that the smell of their flowers did not remain. Mines don't smell anymore either
"Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned
Have died in battle or in vain
And you're sick of all this repetition
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?"
I am so sick of this repetition, this boring and monotone everyday life. Uniform, square haircut, I hate it, I hate it all. I hate it to think that the masters make the rules for the wise men and the fools/ Them that never done nothing but lie and deceive.
"Now when all the bandits that you turned your other cheek to
All lay down their bandanas and complain
And you want somebody you don't have to speak to
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?"
I do, can I come to see you, Queen Jane?
Some guys who where standing around like furnitures came to me and tried to make my life more miserable. I ignored them, I felt like crying. I felt like tearing this x shirt apart, burn this mathematic books, disconnect these cables and run away very far. There's a feeling I get when I look to the west and my spirit is crying for leaving.
Sometimes I wish that my friends and family would have a thought for me. I always try to smile for them but they can't see the sadness in my eyes. No one can.
I try to program myself no to think too much : I have to make life funny because it isn't.
But I can't, I just can't. I hear Bob singin' Forever Young and I want to cry. Everyday I want to cry. The sight of everything makes me want to bury myself in the ground, in my bed, in music, in love.
This world is not made for people who are still alive.
"may you always be happy, may your wishes all come true."
I'd like to say that i'm much younger now than before, but i'm not, i'm just wiser, and i'm tired.
And like it or not, you may call me an obsessive fan, you may coll me tommy, you may call me ray, you may call me anything. I am
Tangled Up in Bob
It levels my head and eases my mind.