They should ban "Repeat" buttons on CD players, as well as cheap Montepulciano imports from Italy.
But it's too late now. I'm locked in alone for the night; my daughter away with friends, and "Blonde on Blonde" on the box. If you have Bobby, go put him on...
Who is this for?
I picture my sisters in soul, -- sisters, lovers, lovers I never knew, fallen from the same stars, and the sharp look in your eyes telling me all -- passing through this half-decade night, and the lives we expected that never arrived
"And you wouldn't know it would happen like this"
and I feel the crossbody tackle you -- we all -- received along the way, day by week by year. Until you wake up and see a very different outcome than you thought was coming.
And now, the younger people here -- 40? -- still expect things to turn out, somehow. We still have an undelivered gift for them, but I don't know how we'll deliver it.
"My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,.."
I have fight in me; a lot of exhaustion, too. My testosterone has always --
always --been turned against the bullies, not with them. I hate bullies. From 8 or 9, I pictured myself rescuing Joyce
__ on her way home from school, threatened by the bullies on our block.
It is the job of a Man to protect. So much protecting to be done, too. Fatherhood has only accentuated that.
Of course, I never intervened; never saw her threatened. But I was prepared, I thought, and occasionally, she would smile at me, from across the street. And my day was glorious from that moment on.
Her smile, your smile. You gave me one yesterday, in the grocery, and I soared for that hour.
"With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?"
We thought we would take care of each other; we would be so different than the parents we watched fall into crevasses of trivia.
"With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?"
Somehow, somehow... we let so many special people down. Loyalty didn't count for very much. And now, here we are.
We are now the elders, and the veil draws over our moment of clarity; our moment when we could have veered us all away from these perils. Or could we?
They are getting ready to ignore us, to marginalize the edge we still feel in all of this. Indeed, we feel more and more. And are objectified into statuary.
They will never know the currents we swam, the hopes we felt at the high tide of freedom. (Well, they will -- but much later...) Unless we speak, with more piercing clarity than ever.
The prophets of our time came, and went. We gave what we could, and now we see that it was all true. But we also see that it was a window so rare. It opened for a time, and we peered through, thinking it would be always open.
We thought the fight would be easy, and that we would win. That certainty, inevitability, remember?
Truth is, quite the opposite, and not so sure. And can we ever kick back, with what we know and have seen?
That window we peered through -- do we have an obligation, beyond all that can be said of the others?
"They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,"
In a time when all worlds came together, were open to viewing for awhile, what heartbreak then, if we could have seen the doors closing once more?
Maybe that was the sad feeling surrounding it all? The graveyards scenes in "Alice's Restaurant", and "Easy Rider"? We knew this time lay ahead of us, and that full adulthood would bring heavier responsibilities than we could bear to see at the time.
Indeed, "Who could they get to carry you?"
I'm sorry that so much has clipped off your peacefully enjoying this lifetime as a woman, in a comfortable prosperous society that generations could only dream of. And to take on a battle that should have been spared you.
I thank you for that sacrifice, and for being here.
http://bobdylan.com/...
With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who among them do they think could carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Copyright © 1966; renewed 1994 Dwarf Music