Something Right in a World Gone Wrong

by Jason Miller Like some magnetic force he is drawn to the sound of people loving him And the crowded bodies who admire every action, every word. Hanging in the balance is the fragrant, smoky air that looms above his brigade. Accompanied by this band of satisfying players who bring to life each anthem. The position is taken behind the slender, electric vehicle through which song travels, unraveling in variations—all good. The black and silver suited man hides in the temporary darkness. Widespread anticipation is heightened by the first of many chords and notes. And then the thousands are welcomed by an omnipotent voice that reminds us all exactly who we were there to see. Lightning erupts as familiar stories float, welcomed with excitement. And I realize, like so many times before, there is no place I would rather be. To watch the subtle dance in front of me, to absorb the emotions stirred in me. There is no place I would rather be. Wonder escapes to ask how he feels at this moment and if it compares. Beneath the shield of lights and amidst his own offerings in poetry. The generations who made him and who are making him exalt in all this. Hanging on low-key smiles, pointed guitar, and bent knees. "Thankseverybody!" Sliding from side to side all of us watch, unable to divert an eye. Direction changes and changes again and images take form in bridge and chorus. The harmonica cues the tambourine, which is nowhere on stage and everywhere. Song of youth revisited and understood in spite of fifty-seven years. Acknowledgement of triangular lust and love. Ticking clocks, romantic twins, lost rings. Giving power to echoes to decide right from wrong. Rebellion against the enslavers and prayers for rain. Memories of the girl with hair to her breast and a warm coat. And, in between time, paying homage and making contact. Then, after the brightest hours of darkness the world has ever seen, light. A final dance with which to send us on our way, ears ringing, stories unfolding. With a last swing of a brown and white Fender, which smells of 1966, the end. The most prolific two hours spent to this point are crystallized in memory. Ending with a few respectable bows, slightly to the right with motorcycle pains. The long, black coat sways randomly away from us, the admirers. Bob Dylan walks back into shadows until even the cherry of his cigarette Fades quietly away. Jason Miller April 29, 1999 E-mail:

Reproduced with permission.
Expecting Rain