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Journeyed over the River That Runs Both Ways to the newly opened ramen parlor & cheap movies.

I saw A Complete Unknown. With Belinda. Who promptly fell asleep: Belinda married at 20 to get out of an unhappy home, so the pop culture currents that propelled so many of the rest of us did not move her. Essentially she lived the same life her mother did in the 1940s & ‘50s except with different cars. I suspect pop music was never a big thing for her.

###

A Complete Unknown is not a bad movie, but it’s also not a particularly consequential movie. What I liked best about it was the art direction: New York City in the 1960s! The New York City I grew up in!

But there’s only room in my heart for one Orpheus who can’t really sing. Mine is Tom Waits. Who was obvs hugely influenced by Dylan but whose persona—“brand” if you will—is a lot edgier, a lot darker, more perpetually hung over.

Both were obvs influenced by the Beats. There’s a great scene toward the beginning of D.A, Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back where Dylan attempts to explain his song-writing technique. He would write reams & reams of words on a piece of paper & then fold the paper up like origami and whatever made it on the surface of that origami became the lyrics of the song. Essentially a variation on William Burroughs’ collage technique, which Dylan freely acknowledged.

###

Another William Burroughs habit that Dylan picked up was junk. Dylan did a lot of heroin & speed during the early 60s (a fact confirmed in later interviews with John Lennon & others.) A Complete Unknown sanitizes that part of the creation myth. Which is fine—it’s not a documentary, after all. But, you know. You don’t drive yourself so relentlessly to the top of the pop culture pyramid on talent alone. Rocket juice is almost always the secret sauce.

Though, of course, that rocket juice is not always drugs.

And the movie isn’t a manual about how to become one of the biggest pop culture icons of all time.

Do people even want to become pop culture icons anymore?

I wonder.

Social media does seem to promote lurker culture.

Very few people seem to be interested in having active imaginations anymore.

###

In other news, my premium LJ account expired. I would continue to pay for LJ if I could since I cross post regularly from DW, and like a good little libertarian, I prefer to pay for services I use. There are a lot of writers (and friends!) I enjoy on LJ, and I would prefer to remain connected to them. But American credit cards will not pay for Russian services.

Not sure if this is an actual problem.

But if it turns out to be, I will delete my LJ account.
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Maybe they’ll get me and maybe they won’t
But not tonight and it won’t be here…


Thrilled, thrilled, thrilled that Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature.

I desperately want to make a pilgrimage to that house in West Saugerties where most of the songs on Music From Big Pink were written.

Just about everything else in the public arena is filling me with profound nausea.

I do not want to hear one more thing ever about Donald Trump! As usual, Michelle Obama gave a stunningly good speech denouncing him, but truth be told, I don’t want to hear Michelle Obama ever again either! I want government to go back to being some ectoplasmic infrastructure that takes place 1,200 feet or so feet above my head and wafts down upon me, sometimes as ash, sometimes as rain, sometimes as frozen bits of dead meteors.

I am just really fucking sick of it.

###

I did phonebank for Terry Gipson yesterday. Gipson’s a good guy; I talked to him for half an hour or so at one of Seraphina’s Breaking Barriers expos. He’s trying to retake the 41st Assembly District. In 2012, he became the first Democrat since FDR to take that district; he lost in 2014 to the creepy and malevolent Sue Serrino.

I have no idea what political operative first thought it would be a good idea to call people up and interrupt their dinner with sprightly conversation about a political candidate they may never have heard of.

Personally, I never answer the phone unless I recognize the number of the person who’s calling.

I am not sure I managed to enlist a single voter for The Cause. And I am very good at making sprightly conversation.

But, you know. I was flying the flag.

Before I did my bit for the Greater Good, I'd decided I would try to go running at Locust Grove, the old Samuel F.B. Morse estate.

It was gorgeous, and there was a trail going down to the river. But I couldn’t figure out how to get to the trail.

It strikes me that that could be a metaphor for my life. RIP Patrizia: It Won't Be Here.

This, by the way, is not the trail:

locust

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