Bob Dylan: Caribbean Wind

Every girl needs some sort of stability in her life. Me, I know that no matter where I go and what I do, and on whatt strange paths of adventure my ears take me, yea, even unto the outer reaches of electronica, Bob will always be there for me, waiting. There will always be an open window high up and some cold night air, however chock-full of pollutents and city noise, to make tthe curtains billw, always some low lighting, a bare floorboard or two, and where ever any of these things congregate in my name, there will Bob be. With his crazy shades and his cracked but frankly really rather sexy voice he has never, ever failed me. I know he's wandered, I know he's had to walk his own path and, yes, I admit that some parts of it- the Christian phase springs particularly to mind- have struck me as rather bizarre, but what's love if not letting someone go free to make their own mistakes? Point is, he's always been here when I've needed him. I've put my faith in so many other voices, and they've all walked away. It's then that I turn to Bob Dylan.

Like tonight, for example. Sitting in bed eating peaches from a paper bag and dreaming of bottles, feeling a hundred kinds of lonliness and seven times that in minor irritations. The worst thing about being sober is the way time just aches out in front of you, and you know that every moment of it has to be conscious, and there is no way of switching off your body or dimming out your mind. Drunk, I can lie on my back for hours and wait for sleep, and all the time will feel like sleep anyway. Drunk, I know that I can't do anything about anything even if I want to, on account of being drunk- which is a pretty good excuse for lying on my back and dozing until morning. So now I'm flumoxed. Sober, but flomoxed. One big girl shaped bag of self-pity and misplaced brain chemicals. And lo, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of feeling a bit sorry for myself, the bootleg version of Sweetheart like you echoes through the ether, and I remember that, no matter how hard things get, there's always Bob Dylan. So here I am. Sitting on my own by an open window, laptop on my knees and everything else stuck in my throat, getting through the evening because someone told me that the longer you try, the easier it gets.