Dylan
The night before the trip, visiting with a dear friend, I drink a beer after 60 days without alcohol. I have another beer when I get home. I feel like a million bucks. It’s a question of when to stop, which seems like a revelation.
At the newly refurbished and beautified Portland airport lobby, we meet Brenna, a singer with a guitar, playing for tips. We stop and listen, put some money in her case, introduce ourselves.
The airport restrooms have signs by the toilets that say, this is not potable water; do not drink. And as we are taxiing for takeoff we pass gigantic signage warning of space bags and an admonition to avoid jamming.
I think I could write a poem about signs at the airport, but I don’t.
I choose to watch “A Complete Unknown” on the flight, and I like it, but it teaches me more about Timothy Chalamet than it does about Bob Dylan. For one, Chalamet makes a good Bob Dylan.
Flying has become mostly unpleasant.
I listen to the first two chapters of an audio book called The Happiness Trap.
I’m flying to Dayton, Ohio with my wife to see my son. He’s a snare drummer with Pulse Percussion. He’s a great percussionist, and he loves the drums and music, but as we land in Dayton from our connecting flight from Atlanta, I wonder if he has ever in his life listened to Dylan. It feels wrong somehow, this thing I don’t know about my son.
michael jarmer 