ON THIS DAY
PERFECTION WAS BORN
Joan Baez is perfect isn’t she
Happy Birthday to the wonderful Joan Chandos Baez!
January 9, 1941
Only close friends, relatives, and house pets.
'Course I am the real Bob Dylan, man.
Are you the real Truman Capote?
Bob sat back against his corduroy armchair and closed his darkened hollow eyes, twitching his sharp brow, almost in disbelief after he had finished reading this “Fan Letter”. It had been a while since he had started reading over the growing pile of letters and now he had grown a curiosity of what else lied hidden amongst the stack of papers. This one had certainly become a unique one for he had never gotten such a letter addressed in the second person nor telling him that he had had such a dream.
After a moment of tranquil silence, he opened his light blue eyes and sat up, holding the paper up between his dirty, cigarette-stained fingers, near his face (his eyesight was never really any good) and re-read the letter. Another moment of silence. It was then, he decided to write a response. He searched for a pen to use, brought the writing end to his mouth to lick the tip (making sure that the ink would flow), and hunched over his cluttered desk to simply write:
Don’t take too much acid before going to bed.
Bob Dylan had had a vexing night; one full of bizarre dreams and vivid colours beyond his restricted imagination. It was one of the first times he had ever taken the hallucinogen known as LSD. It was a bad idea from the start, considering that people like Syd Barrett, Pete Townshend, and Eric Burdon had been so deeply affected and inspired by this bizarre and curious drug. The singer/songwriter had been overall ambivalent towards any other drugs but marijuana and amphetamines but it had seemed a proper choice to have taken in this drug into full effect. This was just a fancy way of saying “fuck it” and doing the drug because he was bored. The following morning, he had opened his dreary robin’s egg blue eyes looks room he did not recognise and soon found out a stranger was with him. He sluggishly turned his body and, much to his surprise, it was lone of the loves of his life: the one, and only, Joan Baez. God she was so gorgeous. That ebony waterfall of hair that sloped around that soft, bronzed face. It was just perfect. He grinned lazily and brought one of his slender, ink-stained hands to her face and stroked her cheek with the lightest touch. He didn’t care if she woke up now or later…she was just so beautiful. He truly was in love with this woman and whatever had happened that managed to bring them together, he was thankful for it, though he’d never admit it.
In 1965 Allen arranged for Larry Keenan and fellow student photographer Dale Smith to photograph him, Michael McClure, Robbie Robertson and Bob Dylan in the alleyway behind City Lights Bookstore (originally for possible use on the Blonde on Blonde album cover).
Well yeah, but—but, you know, we all have our own definitions of all those words.
Y’know…”happier” and “famous” and, uh… you know I don’t think of myself as “famous”. I’m just a guitar player. I have no idea why people want to come see me spout out long drabbles of vomit. Now ”happiness” itself is just a word with a meanin’ that’s yet to be understood. You can’t really identify with it if you don’t even know how it feels.