the new electric Dylan of 196x

Listening to Joan Baez sing this while I’m washing dishes before washing my face before bed,
I think how Dylan’s Edie Sedgwick romance and Warhol superstar Factory loomed in the film
once Cate Blanchett was transmitted into his body and then the other way around
and wonder how fully Dylan became for a time the folksinger of the Chelsea Hotel
having accepted a differently idealized folk from the movement folkies and soft teen rebels
so as to know how far he could go into the dream of the ideal and its conflicted priorities
I’ve never read an actual biography of Dylan, as I don’t count the Chronicles Volume 1
as in any way an actual account but rather a substitute and simulacrum, like the songs
in Self-Portrait as it has stood its ground from 1970 on into a crumblingly desiccating
future desecrating one earnest stage at a time of self-representation and appeal to the truth

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