Grandma Sara

Grandma Sara

In my grandmother’s defense, The Exorcist was a classic. And we saw it at matinee prices. Was it an appropriate choice for a six-year old child? If memory serves correct, that’s a very clear “No.” But she did pay her money and we were going to get our money’s worth—no matter how much I begged to leave. For many months, I could not sleep and remember waking from terrible nightmares—old, decrepit houses filled with naked, possessed, growling devil girls with pale, scarred skin, hairy vaginas, and yellowish, glowing eyes.
* * *
My dear brother, when we were younger, used to pretend to be possessed by the devil to terrorize and manipulate me when my parents were away. After going on for several minutes in a faux devil voice, claiming “I’m possessed,” he’d crumple to the ground and pretend to wake from his demonic encounter wholly unaware, asking “what happened? I just blacked out.” Of course, I knew he wasn’t really possessed, but it still poked at those old fears and scared the shit out of me.
* * *
In retrospect, what I cannot understand is how she could handle it? Why would she insist on suffering through this movie? Was she not disturbed by it herself, if not concerned for her grandson? Was it really just her cheapness that kept us there? Cruelty? Antagonizing my mother? Was she paralyzed by her own numb, lonely hell (my grandfather had died the year before)? Was she fascinated by it? Did she relate to it? As a holocaust survivor, had she seen so much fucked up shit in her life that her perception of fucked up shit was that grossly skewed? Was she trying to educate me about the world?
How did she respond when my mother, who took one look at me—this shivering, flipped out wreck—and lost it, yelled at her for taking me to such a movie? Did she feel guilty? Did she apologize? Did she hear it?
* * *
I have a vague memory of the looks we got from people waiting in line with us. I recall a dark-haired man with sunken, acne-speckled cheeks elbowing his friend and gesturing towards us, then the two of them laughing. I wonder if the ticket lady said anything to my grandmother. She didn’t technically have to—I was accompanied by an adult.
* * *
I also remember waking from the last Exorcist nightmare I ever had.
I parachuted out of a plane filled with exorcist girls, fleeing to a cabin on a hillside, but as I floated to the ground I saw that it too was teeming with exorcist girls, walking around naked with their pale, scarred skin and tufts of pubic hair. Instead of me waking up terrified, the dream for the first time continued on uninterrupted and played itself out. Eventually, I landed and was just walking among groups of pale devil girls who seemed not to notice me or particularly care; they could not or did not do anything to me. They were just wayward demon girls wandering around the verdant hillside of my mind.
After I awoke, they never came into my dreams again.
* * *
I have gone back to that theatre in my mind’s eye and held that little boy who was so scared. Mostly, I hug him close to my chest and try to soothe him. I have told him that he is safe, but I can also sense how difficult it is for him to believe it, especially in that moment. I have told him that it’s okay to be scared, that wounds can heal, and I think he knows I’m telling the truth. I have told him that it’s sometime difficult to tell the difference between dream and reality, that I still struggle with knowing.

Reality

A Chinese philosopher who, every single night when he went to sleep, dreamt that he was a butterfly gliding and floating through the provincial countryside of his homeland, smelling flowers, eating leaves and grass, riding the breeze. This went on for many months and years until there came a time when the man was not sure if he was a philosopher dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a philosopher.

Bob Dylan is nobly BaD

Bob Dylan is nobly BaD

When Judy Collins first met the great Bob Dylan, she walked away from the conversation thinking he was a complete idiot—a blithering fool barely able to form a coherent sentence. Joan Baez, the first time she heard him sing, was knocked to the floor, she said—stunned that anything so powerful “could come out of that little toad.” So stunned, she fell madly in love with him and promptly bought him a toothbrush—a welcome gift for a man to receive when considering the times of day such an instrument should be used.
In 2006, Dylan will release his 44th album adding to his over 500 songs—an artist whose commercial output and contemporary relevance are paralleled maybe by Lennon and McCartney. And there were two of them.
This towering musical legacy, however undeniable, remains largely unexamined and thoroughly misunderstood. Dylan, notoriously reticent with interviewers, offered very little by way of explanation and rarely indulged the messianic-poet-of-the-generation label heaped on him. He once said about himself, that if he weren’t Bob Dylan, he probably would think Bob Dylan had a lot to say. Yet how could the songwriter who did so much to redefine the role of popular music have nothing to say about the very songs he wrote? Could such musicological mythology to be occupied by such a dull, unimpressive man? Could a song ever just be a song…………?
Dylan never wanted to be anything, he admited, least of all ordinary. So when young Robert Zimmerman, the newly bar-mitzvah boy from suburban Minnesota, met the devil, Lucifer himself, in the stacks at the Hibbing library somewhere between Welte and Wordsworth, he couldn’t help but be taken into the devil’s confidence.
“No please, call me Lou,” the devil said. He smiled, casually flipping his shoulder-length, well conditioned blonde hair out of his eyes and showing his perfect, white teeth.
“Alright, Mr. D—um, Lou,” the young man smiled back.
“So, how then, Robert, would you like to make your mark on the world? What do you want to do to make this a better place?”
“Ummmm…I don’t know…Maybe be a doctor. I always liked medicine and the human body.”
“Doctor? That’s what this world needs. Another Jew doctor. C’mon, man. Dream, damn it. I’m the friggin’ devil, Bob.”
“Please don’t call me Bob, sir. My mother says it’s a goyim name.”
“Please don’t call me Bob,” Lucifer mocked. “Listen kid. You’re sitting on a winning lottery ticket, a trip to the moon, and you feed me your mom’s dreams? Her rules? What do you want?” He pointed a long, slender finger right at young Robert’s head, barely touching the space between and just above his eyes.
Robert jerked backwards, shocked. His mind’s eyes filled with images of him dressed in regal attire and ascending stairs to a gilded throne while trumpets sounded and drums pounded, his mother and father looking on proudly; his heart began to beat quickly; beads of sweat gathered on his brow and lip. He felt a faint throb in the place Lucifer touched him and smelled burnt hair.
When he finally gathered himself, he tried to tell Lucifer of his vision but could manage only a sluggish stuttering grunt,
“I-I-I my m-m-m-mu-mu—“
“Musician, did you say, young Robert?” Lucifer asked, suddenly convivial. “Musician. Hmmmmmm…I like the sound of that. Very subtle. You clever little boy.”
Lucifer proceeded to ramble on about his plans—how a musician, if given the right tools and direction, could “so easily capture and control hearts and minds" and how "the masses will be lining up to vouch for your deft genius.”
Of course, poor thirteen-year old Robert heard none of this. Instead, he was still wandering in his kingdom reverie, walking on rose pedals and listening to odes written about his brave and generous deeds. He could hear the music playing at the feasts called for in his honor. Every day for the first year after his coronation, they would attend lavish banquets where they would be entertained by belly dancers and fire spinners and fighting dwarves. They would dine on the finest meats, drink the best wines and then retire to the young man's harem to make love to dozens of women each night.
“And with me as your manager, Robert,” Lucifer said. “We will change the world. What do you think?”
“Uh—oh," he stammered, "well...I’m not so sure that—“
“Not sure about what? You do want to make your mark on the world? Don’t you?”
“Oh, I do. But, I don’t know—“
The devil held up his hand and looked at Robert.
“Clear you mind, boy. Ask questions if you must, but never question me, son. I know exactly what I am doing. This world needs us. They need to see things differently. Music is not spreading evil; we’re spreading awareness—We’re nobly bad.”
“Nobly bad?”
“Yes, nobly bad. Think about it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.” The devil pulled a vinyl record out of his briefcase and handed it to his protégé.
“But we don’t have a player at home.”
The devil looked at Robert and slowly shook his head, tsking derisively at the young man’s vapidness.
“A tad slow, you are. But you’ll have to do. When you go home tonight, look in your closet. Put this record on immediately.”
Robert turned the cover sleeve in his hands.
“Who is Woody Guthrie?”
“It’s pronounced Guthrie, and he’s a guitar player and songwriter you should know. In fact, I’m going to put you on a steady diet of Woody. No more of that Kingston Trio bullshit.”
“But I like the Trio. In fact—“
“In fact—you’ll listen to Woody and only Woody every day before and after school. We have lots of ground to cover and precious little time, Robert.” The devil stroked his reddish-blonde goatee pensively while looking at his new find.
“Eventually we’re going to have to do something about your name. It’s too Jewy. We need something more in line with us—more nobly bad.”
“Too Jewy? Forget it, Lou. I’m not going to change my name and you cannot make it so.”
“Oh, Bob. You have so much to learn.”

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