When Even Sisyphus Has Good Days, What Excuse Do I Have?

On Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour, he said something I wanted to share.

Because yeah… Life’s okay.

Click here to listen to the mp3.

“Now, one guy who knows the meaning of the word tired is Sisyphus, who’s most famous for the punishment he received in the underworld. He was condemned to roll a rock up to the top of a mountain, only to have it role back down for eternity. Albert Camus points out that the Gods were wise in perceiving that an eternity of futile labour is a hideous punishment. Think about it. Take your time. Does it remind you of life?

Life’s a lot like that. You roll a rock up hill and you know you’re going to have to do it again tomorrow. But there are those moments, when you’re walking down the hill without the rock, and look up at the sky, look around at the land–it might even be a fleeting moment–but that’s the time when you say, ‘life’s okay’.

He's pushing that rock up the hill just like a rolling stone!

Grave Words

I’ve been listening to Bob Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour on my way to and from work for the last month or so. It’s a wonderful collection of almost-forgotten songs, mainly from the thirties to the sixties, and I like to think that these are the songs Bob grew up listening to, that this is the music which makes the foundations of his own musical identity. In between spinning records from Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys, Merle Haggard and The Carter Family, Bob gives random tidbits of information about the show’s theme. For example, in the ‘Hello’ themed show he told me that ‘Hello’ was considered a vulgar greeting and quoted a 1922 etiquette book which insisted it should only be used between very close friends, and never, ever shouted.

This being Dylan, it’s worth taking all these anecdotes with a grain of salt. Or six. But they’re entertaining and the kind of random information that I adore, true or not.

On his Classic Rock themed show, as well as telling us about the various layers of the planet Earth, the pet rock craze of the seventies and the story behind the band Rockpile’s name, he also offered the following story:

During the Stone Age, when someone died and was buried, a boulder would be rolled over their grave to prevent them from climbing out of it. Soon, people started wanting to know which boulders were covering graves and which were just boulders, so people started marking the graves. There was money to be made in this, so the markings became more and more elaborate. These days, we don’t use a boulder, we just use a tombstone.

(Not quoted verbatim.)

The story’s far too simple to be true, but it’s very attractive. I just wanted to make a note of it, because that’s the kind of thing a story grows from.

Hang on… wait, wait… I can feel it. It’s happening… It’s happening! Selling advertising space on tombstones! ‘If I’m In Heaven, I’m Drinking Coca-Cola!’. Everything from high-budget and stylish multinationals–‘Cadillac–the ride of your life’–to the local independent hardware store–‘I just died when I found out about Honest John’s deals!’ I’m actually gestating a story that could work very, very well with.

Thanks, Bob!

As for my headstone… Well, I’ve always said I’m not going to be in any position to care what happens after I’m gone. You can dress me up like a clown and use me as a cheap movie prop for all I care. But if anyone’s going to put up a marker, I think I’d like it to be blank. Or just say, ‘careful, there’s a corpse here’. All my life people have been trying to define who and what I am, and it’s a constant pressure I’m never free from. If you’re going to do anything, you can just let me be myself and not define me with names or dates or quotes.

And maybe put a boulder over my grave. You never know when the zombie apocalypse is going to start.

~*~

This post was written in Studio B, the Abernathy Building. Copies hand-written by Dylan Fox are available in the gift shop, and each one comes with its own certificate of authenticity.

 

 

Music, Music, and Magic

I remember, a few years ago now, I was sitting on the sofa in our old house in Carneddi Road trying to write a Christmas list to send to my parents. (We’ve always written lists of which presents we want and given them to the appropriate authorities in our family. I think my parents worked out early on that it’s the safest way to make sure their kids get what they want.) I was struggling for things to put on there, so I ran through all the things I do and enjoy doing. Writing. That was pretty much it. However, I almost always listen to music when I write, so I shrugged and added, ‘a good pair of headphones’ onto the list.

It’s not like I’m any stranger to music. Neither of my parents played an instrument while I was living with them, but they always had music on the TV, on the stereo, on in the car. My mum played Queen and Gregorian Chants and my dad played Chris Reah and Dire Straits. They had a wonderful collection of records collected over the years when records were the only way of collecting music: Bob Dylan; Beatles; Pink Floyd. By the time I left home, I had my own vinyl collection (Bob Dylan, Beatles, Pink Floyd…)

However, it wasn’t until I went down to PC World with my mum the day after Boxing Day and she told me to pick out a pair of headphones that I realised something. I really like music. That set of thirty-quid headphones opened up a new world for me. Songs I’d been listening to for years suddenly sounded so different. There were instruments and phrases I’d never heard in fifteen years of listening.

I can’t quite explain what music does to me. It’s just a pure sensory indulgence. It’s like eating or sleeping: something primeval that exists in a world of its own; that satisfies a desire, a need that nothing else can touch.

It’s only recently that Allegra and I have got a half-decent stereo setup. (Her dad is a lifelong audiophile and what he didn’t give us, he hand-picked out his sixty years of experience. Apart from the speakers. He made those for us.) As part of the process of laying ghosts of the past to rest, I had already sold the last of my vinyls. Now I’m thinking about what I want in the new collection, and that’s got me thinking about music.

There some songs that are… Well, they’re not perfect. They’re songs that make me believe that the world is perfect. They’re songs that wrap me up in a smothering blanket that I would happily let asphyxiate me.

And I want to share them with you, because they’re important to me and maybe you’ll like them too. They’re behind the cut.

(Of course they’re all .flac.  Here’s vlc if whatever you’re running won’t read them.)

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