In my car this morning I listened to Bob Dylan. My harmonica rests on my front console, and at the long Florida stoplights I pull it out and attempt to replicate the music. Somewhere in that exchange I feel the sensation of travel…the “trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship” the folk landscape of 1960s America. Sure, the car is 2 years old, and my boy is less than that and sits in the car seat in back, and I am over 40, not near old enough to remember the Beats, the Newport Folk Festival, or much else until the Pac Man generation.
Still hearing the words, “but for the sky there are no fences facing” makes me eager to hit out on the road in my mind and in reality. I see my boy’s blond hair waving in the wind as we travel on the backroads with the windows open, and music playing. I imagine him growing up and wonder what kind of country he will have. Regardless, I expect that the music he hears, the stories, the harmonica/harp I try to play, will somehow connect him with the past in a way that is impossible to articulate…somewhere where the words end.
As I have said, I am eager to get on the road. It is coming soon. A train trip up north with a little radio, and a bottle of Port wine, watching the country go by…
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it…