You may have trouble believing this next sentence, but as far as I can tell I don't think the Seattle Times is kidding on reporting it:  Bob Dylan is going to release a Christmas album on October 13.  Apparently profits go to the world food bank or something like that.  Oh, BObby.  By the way, don't want to make you insanely and violently jealous, but Bob is in town Monday night to start his tour of the West Coast.  Should be beautiful, man. Nobody fucks with Bobby. You said it man. 
 
Be well, paint, scream, laugh, sing, read, stretch, close your eyes to feel your breath, watch youtube videos of Bono with a drink late at night. 

Good karma and will from Seattle.
 

..........................................................................................................................









             

               

                                              bob dylan & allen ginsberg                          

                               삶이 그대를 속이거나 혹은 그대가 삶을 속일 때 볼란다.



not dark yet


bob dylan



Shadows are falling and I've been here all day
It's too hot to sleep time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal
There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well my sense of humanity has gone down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing there's been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writing what was in her mind
I just don't see why I should even care
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well, I've been to London and I've been to gay Paree
I've followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down on the bottom of a world full of lies
I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes
Sometimes my burden seems more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

I was born here and I'll die here against my will
I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still
Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear a murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun. 

You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)  - walt whitman -

                            



                                                      July  6  : )

It's the birthday of one　　　　 of the most influential and controversial philosophers of the 20th century, Peter Singer, born in Melbourne, Australia (1946). His book Animal Liberation (1975), which is generally credited with starting the animal rights movement, has sold more than a million copies and is estimated to have converted more people to vegetarianism than any other book ever written.

But Singer has said he is disappointed by the book's impact. He said, "When I wrote it, I really thought the book would change the world. I know it sounds a little grand now, but at the time the '60s still existed for us. It looked as if real changes were possible, and I let myself believe that this would be one　　　　 of them. All you have to do is walk around the corner to McDonald's to see how successful I have been."

                                                    isis - bob dylan















I married Isis on the fifth day of May
But I could not hold on to her very long
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.

I came to a high place of darkness and light
The dividing line ran through the center of town
I hitched up my pony to a post on the right
Went in to a laundry to wash my clothes down.

A man in the corner approached me for a match
I knew right away he was not ordinary
He said "Are you looking for something easy to catch ?"
I said "I got no money". He said "That ain't necessary".

We set out that night for the cold in the North
I gave him my blanket he gave me his word
I said "Where are we going ?" He said "We'd be back by the fourth"
I said "That's the best new that I've ever heard".

I was thinking about turquoise I was thinking about gold
I was thinking about diamonds and the world's biggest necklace
As we rode through the canyons through the devilish cold
I was thinking about Isis how she thought I was so reckless.

How she told me that one　　　 day we meet up again
And things would be different the next time we wed
If I onl　　　y could hang on and just be her friend
I still can't remember all the best things she said.

We came to the pyramids all embedded in ice
He said "There's a body I'm trying to find
If I carry it out it'll bring a good prize"
It was then that I knew what he had on his mind.

The wind it was howling and the snow was outrageous
We chopped through the night and we chopped through the dawn
When he died I was hoping that it wasn't contagious
But I made up my mind that I had to go on.
I broke into the tomb but the casket was empty
There was no jewels no nothing I felt I'd been had
When I saw that my partner was just being friendly
When I took up his offer I must-a been mad.

I picked up his body and I dragged him inside
Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover
I said a quick prayer and I felt satisfied
Then I rode back to find Isis just to tell her I love her.

She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise
Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed
I came in from the East with the sun in my eyes
I cursed her one　　　 time then I rode on ahead.

She said "Where ya been ?" I said "No place special ?"
She said "You look different" I said "Well I guess"
She said "You been gone" I said "That's onl　　　y natural"
She said "You gonna stay ?" I said "If you want me to, Yeah ".

Isis oh Isis you mystical child
What drives me to you is what drives me insane
I still can remember the way that you smiled
On the fifth day of May in the drizzling rain.

                                     if i were a carpenter - tim hardin









                        





                                                    May  31  : )

It's the birthday of poet Walt Whitman, born in West Hills, Long Island, New York (1819). He grew up in Brooklyn, and lived in New York City for most of his life. He began working as a printer's assistant from a very young age, and in the '40s and '50s he worked for a series of newspapers in Brooklyn and Manhattan. He always loved New York. In one　　 editorial, he wrote that New York City was "the great place of the western continent, the heart, the brain, the focus, the main spring, the pinnacle, the extremity, the no more beyond of the New World."

It was in New York City, in 1855, that Whitman published the first edition of his poetry collection Leaves of Grass. He couldn't find anyone to publish it for him so he sold a house and used the money to publish it himself. There was no publisher's name or author's name on the cover, just a picture of Whitman himself. He wrote the poems in a new style, a kind of free verse without rhyme or meter. He said in one　　 preface to the book, "Here are the roughs and beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves."

Leaves of Grass got mostly bad reviews, but Ralph Waldo Emerson called it "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." Whitman printed Emerson's comment on the second edition of the book, and he wrote an anonymous review of it himself, hoping to spark sales.

Whitman continued to add poems to Leaves of Grass and publish it in different editions throughout his life. It eventually went through nine different editions; Whitman compared the finished book to a cathedral that took years to build, or a tree with visible circles of growth. In the 1880s the Society for the Suppression of Vice called it immoral in a Boston newspaper, and that's when it finally started to sell. Whitman used the money to buy a cottage in Camden, where he spent the rest of his life.