Content warning for uhhh drugs, sexual abuse, physical abuse

It started when I requested my partner design one of the characters for our story. I needed a 1960s wool processing factory owner with a short temper and an effiminate, confident flair. Referencing the energy of Columbo villains, she gave me a design. I quickly became enamored and he was the focus of development for months, bullying one of our protagonists endlessly while we assessed his motivations and values.

My partner had been deep diving into 60s-70s country and folk and I became curious, since the majority of my listening was focused around the 1980s-2000s avant-garde with the occasional dash of Statler Brothers. I asked for a playlist of songs she thought that i'd enjoy and I was given PORCH TUNES, a playlist with a wide array of musicians such as Paul Simon, Gordon Lightfoot, Todd Rundgren, and....Bob Dylan. Little did I know this would contribute to my downfall.

Now I'd heard of Bob Dylan before, she'd snuck "Like a Rolling Stone" on one of our shared character playlists for Finn Bailey in Nov 2021, a character that fits the song's lyrics to a T, a lecture to someone obsessed with appeasing the masses as well as those in power and taking advantage of others kindness. I adored the lyrics, but the length of the song and its repetitiveness made it difficult for me not to skip.

However, it all changed in December of 2022, I was sent a message that read "Hey you wanna know what Bob Dylan looked like in the 60s." and what I saw was a young version of Ben. I was mildly enamored with the concept of a real person who looked like Ben, and it became a thing for both of us to send photos of Bob in 1965 that we'd stumble across on Tumblr and joke that he looked just like him and how frustrated Ben would be about this.

My partner would find interesting interactions involving Bob and other folk singers and share them with me, like his beef with Paul Simon. In January linking the 1965 press conference for us to giggle about how nervous and oddly pretty he was, though we admitted we were both biased as the creators of Ben. Of course we think he's cute, he looks like the man we've collaborated on for over half a year.

Bob became to me "that pretty guy from 1965 who sings the song I can't stand, but my loved ones enjoy him so I'll probably look into his discography eventually." One of my friends being particularly known for her love of his work, was lamenting that he was coming to Europe but she couldn't afford to see him. My partner had bought her a ticket to see Roger Waters a few months earlier, and I thought it would be fun to forward that kindness and help her see Bob as well. While talking to her I mentioned that I should probably look more into his work at some point since I have positive associations with him between her and my partner, and a few days later "PORCH TUNES" was created.

The eighth song of Porch Tunes was Subterranean Homesick Blues, and it OBLITERATED me. Fast, nonsense words (to my speedy, lyric-blind brain). Southern twang that reminded me of my home in the deep south without the scowl that modern country would bring to my face. I fell in love immediately and played it frequently, riding the dopamine high of what read to me as YEEHAW NIGHTCORE. It would take me an hour to drive to my gym, so I took it upon myself to create a little challenge. A game fun to noone but me. On the way to the gym I would listen to it normally, but on repeat. But on the way home.....I put Subterranean Homesick Blues on repeat, sang along, and if I messed up a Single lyric i'd start from the beginning and try again. I did this for the full hour until I was belting and snapping and hooting and hollering every time i'd succeed or fail a stanza. I scrambled up so much adrenaline during that game I decided in that moment that I wanted to take up the harmonica. I researched which key Subterranean was in and bought myself a G Harmonica.

The harmonica wouldn't come in until later, but my newfound excitement for Bob's work didn't diminish. My partner attempted to show me other songs, but I was laser focused on Subterranean. Having something like a tongue twister that I could recite at rapid-speed brought me a lot of relief and happiness. I was proud of myself for memorizing such a lengthy, weird thing. It was something for me, that only really appealed to me in this way, and I'd been struggling to find things like that lately.

In April, I traveled down to a cabin in the woods with my partner and our friend for an artist's retreat. Hiking, campfire, cooking, hot tub, drawing, the whole works. The drive there I put on a "This is: Bob Dylan" playlist to see if I could find anything like Subterranean. I couldn't, but I'd "heart" each song that especially appealed to me. When I got to the lot I checked out my heart hoard and quickly came to realize I'd liked a good 97% of the list. Zooming around the Ohio hills and blasting Subterranean is still one of my fondest memories of the trip. I fantasized about making a zine in an old newspaper format, creating something tangible and connecting with other artists in a way that was concrete and forever. I never went through with it, but maybe I will someday. I heard "Talkin' Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues" for the first time, cross-faded by the fire. I had my eyes narrowed, staring into the fire confused. I asked my partner "is this bob dylan?" and she said "No." I continued staring and squinting until I realized she was probably bullshitting me. I glanced at her phone. It was in fact, bob dylan.

The next week my G harmonica came in and I was obsessed. It was very well made, a fender, and the slightest exhale could create a soft hum. I'd only used dollar store harmonicas you had to heave into to get to make a sound before this, and the sound those would make was more akin to a shriek than a note. This was smooth. I played it everywhere, refusing to look up any tutorials until I figured out how to make the sounds I wanted by myself. I went on a walk with my roommate through the abandoned railroad tunnel, fweeting and heehooing my way all through the trail and confusing oncoming joggers. I made little songs, danced while I played, tried to play along with bob, and howled and laughed. It became a toy for me, and a means of communicating for fun. I visited my friends in the city and used the harmonica notes to answer yes or no questions or express certain emotions.

I became enamored with learning about bob dylan's life. I watched old footage of him playing with friends, envious of the dim lit, smoky environments and encouraging words they'd exchange. I wanted to sing and write songs with people, but everyone I knew closely was too self-conscious about their voice or disinterested in music as a creative outlet. I'd had a phase of being consistently stoned as a replacement for my medication, and seeing bob wander around confused and tired and grouchy reminded me of that period of my life. A lot of things about bob reminded me of a lot of periods of my life. I'd never wear my glasses because I hated the way they looked on my round face, this changed 5 or so years ago when I discovered prescription sunglasses, then I began to use those instead. Sunglasses inside, sunglasses at night, they brought me relief because I didn't have to think about my facial expressions and the sunlight would sting my blue eyes. Later I learned bob dylan did the same thing for the same reasons, round face included. I've gravitated toward a disheveled business casual style since I was a kid. Button ups worn wrong, monochromatic colors, weird patterns. Pairing things with jeans that should never be paired with jeans and boots. Southern gothic business casual. Obsession with aesthetics older than myself. Every time I'd find a new similarity I'd laugh, this motherfucker from the 1960s was "copying me", some chick born when he was 58.

The beats and generalized art community in greenwich village reminded me of the art communities i'd been in and am still apart of (Furry, mainly.) Passing the same money and ideas back and forth, friends sharing their webcomic concepts and getting excited for each other, having a large amount of "outsiders" who are confused and disgusted by your existence and lingo and misinterpet it on news stations. Laughing at how little those news station anchors understand and how they try to wrongfully explain it in their terms. People who flip flop identifying with the label based on outside judgment, a high concentration of queer people and artists, posers using politics to garner attention and money, room parties in hotels with a large concentration of "free-love" flavored casual sex and drug experimentation, focus on exploring your personal identity and relationship to the world. Being seen as disgusting, crazy, "a faggot".

Beat culture = = furries aside, with Bob I related more to myself growing up famous in the pony fandom. The shock of being suddenly risen to autograph-requesting (faux) fame and the attitudes that came with that power were similar to mine as a young artist in the 2010s. People using you for connections, glorifying you in a way you're unfamiliar with, asking for explanations for everything you do and how you do it, assessing all your values based on singular sentences, the same questions over and over driving you mad. Hell, even reporters using your pain for attention and money. I was rude and seclusive as a teen and the power got to my head, I responded to just about every question I was asked with snark and/or vague answers. I was attached to and mentored by a community-famous pedophile that I admired for being edgy and subversive in his opinions (Rest in piss, Ginsberg.) I both adored the attention I got, as a lifelong attention seeker, and hated it because it permeated nearly every part of my life. I had instant access to money whenever I wanted, but didn't care for it. I had multiple stalkers, one that threatened to shoot me at a convention. I ran away from all of it one day. Watching Bob go through a similar hell made me feel less alone. I'll never understand truly from experience, what he went through, but there's enough parallels for it to pull at my heart strings and watching him come to the same conclusions I came to in my 20s that he came to in his 30s and 40s...oof! Existence validated.

Toward the end of April, I decided I wanted to start a band. Music was a way that I could be stupid and silly and not worry about it being "good", because I was incapable of good! but in a way that still brought me laughter. That was hard to come by for me. I have very high standards for myself in art. With music I could be authentically myself as well, something I hadn't been able to truly do with drawing since starting my business in 2018. I had so many ideas for weird songs to do, but I needed someone who matched my intentions with music creation. I wanted to keep it experimental and strange and just for us, with 0 interest in monetization or branding. I found this in my friend. My friend and I were both huge fans of the Residents, an avant-garde experimental art band from the 70s. The Residents and Bob Dylan inspired me Immensely, the concept of just playing around with sound combined with the confidence in only making things for yourself just gave me a rush! This friend had grown up playing the guitar, played in a band, and appreciated the idea of not being restricted to things sounding "good" or following a specific formula. Their partner had also grown up with music and was enthusiastic about the idea. We decided to do our first official "jam session" on May 6, 2023 in their garage, recording it on tape. We still don't have a name. We figure a good one will come eventually.

Around that time I'd been offered the opportunity to table at a large convention in Georgia, for practically free. I impulsively took the offer, exhausted by consistent commissionwork and needing a financial opportunity like this. The person offering this had a history of issues, but I needed the money and I was assured I had nothing to worry about regarding those issues, as they had been resolved and he'd been to years of therapy. (Later it was revealed by accident that this was a lie.) I took the con-prep time to live out my "beat poet fantasy", being constantly high and focusing on artistic exploration in a room full of other queer artists. I traveled to multiple antique stores and record shops, collecting things like a fisherman's cap, dark flat sunglasses, a fringe cowboy duster, and a black dress shirt from the 1960s. I finally looked how I wanted to! and any time that I felt uncomfortable by something the host said or did, I'd just take another hit. No use in making things uncomfortable, I just need to get through this weekend and go home. Zone out and think about Subterranean or Mr. Tambourine Man.

This was in fact, a terrible idea, as I'd been high for the entire con-prep phase, acting passively and/or confusingly toward a lot of offers that I would have been massively uncomfortable and firm about not being interested in sober. I'd fallen into a post-traumatic, marijuana-enhanced stupor, my mind consisting of television static and past drudged up memories. I couldn't bring myself to blame the host, as I'd been the person who drove myself deeper into intoxication with every unwanted flirtatious comment. I didn't properly communicate at all, I didn't want to. I'm going to be honest, I still don't know how to process it. I try not to think about it. The drive to the convention was disastrous, nauseously combing over every detail that I could recall (which wasn't much) trying to find some sort of evidence that I shouldn't consider this a crime, but not having enough evidence to reference. Regardless of technicalities, self-imposed or true, I was very unhappy with what occurred and uncomfortable. But I desperately needed money, and I promised to deliver commissions and supplies to the con. I couldn't back out at this point without screwing over at least 5 people and myself. I went to the convention in spite of these feelings, promising to concerned loved ones that I would remain sober for the entire convention and that I had learned my lesson. Beat poet fantasy DEAD. I was correct in assuming that if I was sober, i'd be firm and blunt about any discomfort, and the host, as shit he was, was not the sort of person to push a firm no.

The con went disastrously for me outside of this relief, the stress of the workload i'd taken on to justify the con was massive. That, combined with spats and consistent, head-rearing past grievances that I'd had with the host (that I'd been promised that I wouldn't have to worry about) made the experience very unpleasant. I was familiar with all of these behaviors, and I resolved to avoid him at all times aside from hours that I was required to be there. Any point of free time I had where there was the opportunity for me to speak, I'd spend talking to folks about Bob Dylan. Fashion, songs, press conferences, how strange it is that he rose to fame. He was the only thing that would bring me comfort and effectively distract me. At the convention I decided to purchase a (completely legal drug), for later.

I stopped by a relative's new house going out of Georgia. Visiting this relative brings a lot of stress, as her second husband has a consistent history of beating her. Acting polite in the company of those I can't stand, that I know have done horrible things to people I care about, had been the theme of this weekend. Smile and don't drudge up old dirt. Retreat into your mind if you have to, just don't make it a problem. Just get through today. I've been forced to overlook severe acts of violence and crimes against myself and others my entire childhood, but it had been a while since it was this many instances in a row, and it's strange having the abilities of an adult when you can only remember what it's like being a stranded child. It hadn't even occurred to me that I could just leave, though I don't know what that would do aside from sadden the one I wanted out of there. While I was there, I brought up to her that I'd gotten into Bob Dylan recently (of course). Her husband brought up excitedly that he's been a die hard fan of his for years. I asked about interviews, he knew all the interviews I knew. He knew all the songs I knew. His favorite was Subterranean. Articles, inside jokes, controversies, all of it. The first person outside of my partner to enthusiastically try to connect with me over Bob Dylan and to have the knowledge to do that. I smoked to concretely avoid thinking about it as I made conversation with him, and the three of us watched his documentary. Dylan-flavored, mind-grinding escapism continued.

After Georgia, I went up to Virginia, to a small drive-by town that I'd designated years ago was the setting of my partner and I's story. Relieved to finally be immersed in study and to have the funds to actually enjoy it due to the con, I wandered everywhere I could. I read every book they had on the history of the town at their local library, ate at the restaurant our characters gleefully frequented, picked up newspapers from the antique store from the time period we were referencing, and took pictures of every building and street that I could potentially reference later. What a relief for it to finally be over...I pulled up to an old dirty motel and grabbed my room for the night. I closed the blinds and curtains, turned the AC as frigid as I could, took a shower, and tossed around that completely legal drug. I was informed to take half, I took 3/4s. Why not. I needed it after this mind-breaking hellscape of a weekend.

I settled into bed, surrounding myself with pillows and balled up blankets. I stared at the star-swirling ceiling, waiting for something to happen. I felt nothing for a few minutes, so I decided it would be a good time to doordash some food before I was too screwy to hold my phone. I put in an order for a chicken sandwich when it began to hit. I tried listening to songs by other musicians, but it felt wrong. They were too abrasive. Not comforting. I spoke to a few friends hoping to make it better, it didn't. Then I put on the "This is: Bob Dylan" list and set the phone on my pillow, holding the speaker to my ear at a medium volume. Immediately I was struck with surprise. what the fuck... It sounds like he's right next to me. It's echoing through both sides the way a voice in the same room would. I became enamored by the thought of that being true, and eventually my drug-hopped mind convinced me it was true. He was right there, I was laying with my cheek resting on the side of his non-guitared thigh, he was playing all of these songs, and every single one I was being communicated to DIRECTLY. This...was a mixed bag. Every angry song he'd made became an attack on my character and i'd apologize and try to explain, stupidly, that there must be a misunderstanding, but every love song i was instantly soothed by and I'd turn into mush. I hadn't really thought of him that way before then. I thought he was interesting, pretty like a woman, and fun to learn true and fabricated things about. But the guy I was semi-attached to wasn't even a true-to-life representation. I knew concretely that I had nothing to do with him and didn't have or want any kind of personal relationship, especially considering what i'd read about his prior ones. It was also of course, impossible to know him, the time frame I was most attached to was over 70 years ago. That person has died and evolved into dozens of new versions of himself.

But sure as shit that drug convinced me right there, he was there, he both loved and despised me, and he'd take care of me in that moment. I felt truly at peace, curled up with multiple pillows in my arms, convinced wholly that we were in some form of warm embrace. I laugh about the ridiculousness of it now, but it felt genuinely real! The doordash driver knocked on the door and my first thought was that it was bob's security trying to take him away. I called out for the man to leave and nestled my drug-driven-mad-ass back into bob's "arms". An hour of this mumbly happy drifting passed and I started coming down, I jolted up and remembered that I'd ordered food. The driver had sent a photo of the motel door, and I was quickly scrambling to grab my now-freezing fast food. I enjoyed it IMMENSELY. Dancing around the room and popping fries in my mouth, still feeling bob's presence there, singing to me. Then I looked back and saw that Bob was gone. I was hit with dread. Nooo no no no no where did--The reality of my situation hit me and I quickly stuffed my face with the remaining fourth in hopes of bringing him back. Your tolerance builds immediately after you take it, so it was basically the equivalent of drinking water. Nothing happened. I finished my food and curled up into bed, staring at the stuffed animal representations of my characters I'd brought with me to town. They were slowly blinking their little beady eyes and falling asleep. I decided to fall asleep too, ear still held to my speaker.

The next morning I woke up convinced that if I turned that looping playlist off something horrible would happen. I decided not to explore the town anymore out of fear that a conversation would require me to pause it, and I'd die. That's right, Die. I was certain of this. That obviously didn't happen. I sobered up, drove home, feeling empty, foggy, and dreadful. I hadn't cut ties with anyone from that convention at that point. I knew I was expected to be friends after that hellscape of a weekend, and I knew the host would eventually contact me expecting a casual conversation. This made me want to tear my hair out. The strange drug-induced representation of bob wasn't real. I was alone. I had to figure out how to cut ties with someone who has a history of not letting people leave, for reasons I couldn't even fully articulate because my brain wouldn't let me remember. I couldn't cry about it, I just felt nauseous, thinking on what to do was too difficult and my brain was riddled with random resurfaced traumatic memories, parallels to my past. But for weeks following, I would still feel his presence with me, offering comfort. Like how people describe jesus. or some shit. I don't know. It felt right. I talked about him passively like he was real and that I'd missed him, much to the concern of my partner, who had been struggling enough throughout the whole ordeal to also be dealing with her partner losing her mind. I tried to reassure her that I was alright, as well as take care of myself, and that...was hard. Because I wasn't alright, and I wasn't. But goddamn if having fake bob around didn't make things a lot easier.

Anyway, eventually that......kind of stopped? Kind of. I still use the falsified personification of someone I don't know as a crutch. But that's why I made this website. Compulsively compiling things about some guy I relate to, but also dislike, but also find pretty, is the only thing right now that is guaranteed to make me happy. I need that right now. (also I did block that guy.)