The Never Ending Pool

Some ramblings triggered by a third viewing of 'I'm Not There', and a subsequent reading of some poems and letters of Arthur Rimbaud.


How many more times can the 'shape-shifter' pull new rabbits out of the hat? You can't put a number on the possible reinventions of the self that are 'Bob Dylan'. What we have seen so far represents a mere fraction of what might have been, but also a lot more than what might have been.

Because he has had the fortune - good or bad? - to live well into his seventh decade, the number of 'Dylans' is greater than it might have been if certain simple (but not really simple at all) twists of fate had turned out otherwise. 'He' could have been the reasonably happy owner of a hardware store in Hibbing, or he might have completed his degree in the University of Minnesota and spent his life teaching, or he could have ended up in a homeless shelter in New York and drunk/drugged himself to death, or become "just another accident statistic".

But countless twists of fate decided otherwise. And so, the never ending self-invention and self-dismantling continue. Because, inevitably, he will not go on forever, the number of 'Dylans' is certainly finite. But the barrel isn't empty yet, by any means. If his life extends into an eighth or ninth decade, expect more 'Bob Dylans', in or out of the public eye. The reinventions are him.

And, how about us, the spectators, the mesmerized, the loyal followers of this 'trapeze artist'?

Do you like Bob Dylan? Are you a Bob Dylan fan?

These questions have always struck me as strange, slightly bizarre, even/especially when I pose them for myself. Which 'Bob Dylan'? Is it possible to be a 'fan' of all of them, without seeming ridiculous? You like 1963's skinny, hobo-kid in the same way you like 2007's slickly attired growling old crooner? You are a fan of 1975's white-faced gypsy troubadour in the same way as you like the smooth dude in the Supper Club in 1993? You love '66 Bob and '81 Bob with equal, or similar passion? You are a fan of all of those sounds, looks, voices, styles, 'philosophies' ...?

To love all those 'Bobs' equally, at the same time, you'd have to suffer from multiple personality disorder. It's a sure bet that 'Bob' doesn't love all of them equally.

To have loved all them in a serial fashion, you'd have to have gone through the same process of continual reinvention as 'Bob' himself. Or, you'd have to have such a weak sense of 'self' that you'd be willing to follow wherever 'he' (or anyone else) decided to take you. (Maybe that explains, in part, why 'he' is so reluctant to have anything to do with 'his' fans.)

Alternatively, perhaps what you/we/I love is the process itself, rather than any particular phase, or any particular content. Perhaps what we love in 'Bob' is the spectacle of someone attempting to do what all of us (somewhere deep down within us) long to do in the course of our own brief lives.

But, have we had the courage to do so? Or, perhaps, we haven't had the kind of 'luck' he certainly had - meeting the van Ronks, Grossmans, Suzes, Joanies and Saras of this world, all of whom acted as 'enablers' for the jokerman. Was all of that a matter of mere luck, or something else?

Have I found my necessary 'enablers', yet? Occasionally? Ever?
Have I been able to 'move on' every time you I, or knew, deep down, that this is what was required? Have I experienced even one, or a few, Dylanesque self-reinventions? Or, am I, for the most part, stuck with what I have, a seemingly one-off hand dealt to me by circumstances, place of birth, family history, accidence and coincidence? Have I opted for the equivalent of a secure hideaway in a hardware store in Hibbing?


Rimbaud (1871 letter to Georges Izambard):

"I louse up myself as much as possible. Why? I want to be a
poet, and I'm working to make myself a Seer: you will not understand at all, and I hardly know how to explain it to you. The point is to arrive at the unknown by the dissoluteness of all the senses. The suffering are enormous, but one has to be strong, to be born poet, and I have recognized myself to be a poet. It is not my fault at all. It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. Pardon the pun.

I is someone else [i]Je est un autre[/i]] ..."


Chronicles: "Robert Johnson's code of language was like nothing I'd heard before or since. To go with all of that, someplace along the line Suze had also introduced me to the poetry of French Symbolist poet Arthur Rimbaud. That was a big deal, too. I cam across one of his letters called "Je est un autre", which translates into "I is someone else". When I read those words the bells went off. It made perfect sense. I wished someone would have mentioned that to me earlier...." (p.288)



p.s. for a complete contrast to 'I'm Not There', see 'Control', Anton Corbijn's recent movie about the tragic life of Ian Curtis, led singer of Joy Division. Curtis was a victim of fate's simple twists. Dylan is their (ring)master.