As I lie in this dark room, listening to the soft breathing of my children as they drift to sleep, staring at an endless swirl of red and white stars on the ceiling above, I feel in my bones that it would be a shame to allow this day to pass without a few words for Mr. Bob Dylan on this his 80th birthday.
To myself and so many others, Dylan represents a level of artistry and mystery that feels beyond the reach of mere mortals. A shapeshifting prophet. A boxcar hopping troubadour and supercharged rock ‘n roll icon. Perhaps most importantly, for myself at least, a poet.
Dylan made the language I’d spoken my entire life feel brand new and dangerous. He permitted young writers to create wild impressionistic tapestries with their lines and, by doing so, set free the minds and souls of so many.
Somewhere in the world, someone is doing a much better job than I of paying tribute to the man that so many of us owe so much, so I won’t ramble. Happy Birthday, Bob.
And thanks for everything.