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Was it What You Wanted?
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The last issue of Freewheelin’ I mean. The one without my usual stream of unconscious nonsense. Well, however you might feel, even if it’s only indifference, you can’t change the past, but you can reinterpret it. As it happens, I simply forgot to put fingers to keyboard in time to meet the Spoke’s dudline. But others might see it differently. Or not, as there was bugger all to see. But abnormal surplus has now resumed. So how does this grab you? It’s from an exchange of email correspondence I stumbled across on a web site devoted to Gillian Welch, the topic being generated by a query about her religious beliefs. This poor woman attracts almost as much speculation as Bob, so no surprises that there was LOTS of scribblings, a couple of which are reproduced below. And of course Dylan gets mentioned. Here’s one:-
What if
you hear a recording (or performance, or read the lyrics) of a song
without knowing who the artist is? Does the song not affect you until
you someday find out who the artist is and what his/her beliefs are? And another:-
I think authorial
intention is a legitimate consideration when understanding an artist’s
work. It’s the artistic triangle: artist, work, and receiver. All art is
autobiographical to some degree, even if it’s fictional, because the
work is an extension of the person (maybe this idea resonates more with
Christians because if you perceive God’s authorial hand in creation, you
would expect the same from the “creations” of his creatures). Naturally(?) this got me to thinking(??) that it’s got to be much simpler that all that. Brace yourselves, I have landed on a Truth…(???) Faith is like underwear, in that it is something that many folks take for granted, perhaps regard as essential, simply assume that it has to be there and cloak themselves in it just in case the unexpected and unwelcome happens. Stick with me, there is a point to this. I hope. Faith, like underwear, comes in lots of different labels, though arguably all of them do substantially the same thing, which is offer support, provide some control and act as something of a safety net. And the parallels have barely begun! Try this: Faith, like the underwear that might be found on any one shop may appear undifferentiated, but the wearer soon customises it. To explain: Faith gets interpreted to suit the conscience of the individual (if this is done by clerics it’s called theology, if by the laity it’s called heresy), whilst underwear is inevitably stretched and/or tucked to fit where necessary. Both are equally elastic! And like Faith, underwear needs to be looked after if it is to remain pure and unsullied. For some, Faith is as practical as a pair of boxer shorts. For others it’s as uplifting as a balcony bra. Some may find it as constricting as a fully stiffened corset, or as uncomfortable as a too tight thong, whilst others find it as comforting as the famous Playtex eighteen hour girdle (now THAT really takes some believing). But ultimately it’s an entirely personal matter for the individual, who may of course choose to let one or maybe others (some folks have more involved social lives than others) in on the secret. Victoria’s Secret for US readers. Some will always go for the plain/basic/functional - i.e. white cotton.Others might seek out extraordinarily exotic lingerie, the kind that has all sorts of seemingly impractical (but fun) bits to tighten and twang. Their theological equivalents might well be Primitive Baptists and Roman Catholics, particular those with a penchant for the old rituals. But who really knows? As attending services is an imperfect indicator of belief or virtue, in much the same way that underwear offers little or no clue to occupation. Pole dancers aside. But apart from what a lover should know (and the rest of us possibly discover if an unexpected bus impacts), or hipster jeans hint at, what is up close and personal remains private. It’s sort of the same as what goes on inside the head of someone during quiet prayer. Now, I’m about the same size as a bus (and every bit as unreliable), so it’s perhaps entirely understandable, though maybe less forgivable, that in an earlier Freewheelin’ I went in to a fair bit of detail on some aspects of the lovely Mary Catherine’s underwear. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. But she does have great legs and is something of an extrovert, so I may yet qualify for an indulgence of one sort or another. Anyway, just as I was losing all sense of direction (or maybe just all sense), I got to pondering on what sort of undie-grundies Dylan wears under his trousers. WELL WHY NOT? The poor bugger has been on the receiving end of just about every other sort of analysis and investigation, so it’s about time it was directed at something sensible. Not that it needs many clues, because in the light of his tendency to shamble around in what often looks like cast-offs, plus the significance of his on-going religious epiphany and his tendency to question everything, it’s obvious that Bob Dylan’s underwear is indisputably a pair of holy old why-fronts! At least that what I believe. And if you know better, then tell Howard Sounes.
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