DYLAN, ROOMING HOUSES AND RAIN…

Eric Lastick is a strange man. He looks lived in, like an old rooming house knocked out and loaded from the inside.

He’s spent his life inside this badly-built walk-on-stilts high-rise of rooms called things like Hope, Aspiration, Dream…

… and still, today, he stares from his rain-melting ancient windows into glistening streets and memories.

Eric Lastick was born in Zurich but never became a gnome… instead he went looking for a place to stay in Pennsylvania, a city built on handmade pretzels, whoopie pies and cheesesteaks

Personally, I’ve never been to Pennsylvania. And doubt I ever will, I have more of a New York state of mind, an Elvis poster across the grey-ness of the days, Minnesota moan and an Iron Range resolve.

But Eric is living in Pennsylvania in his rooming-house mind.

And he is writing in there all the time.

It’s as if there comes a knock at the door, the rent man and Eric’s jailer are standing in the rain. an old railway sign in their hand.

Eric drops a poem into a cup…

Here Eric Lastick writes three short pieces on Dylan, analysing the ways of life that made little Bob Zimmerman what he is today.

Thank you for sharing Eric.

AN ODE TO DYLAN… this day.

Part 1 of 3 BOYHOOD HOME… the morning.

Planes, lanes & bridges of the golds to browns of the overlook sky.

Wind drift, the regulars, yet precious snow top roof of a Minnesota own private little castle… & forefront garden. Mailer home equals of home-grown charm, here in Duluth.

Memories a-flow, in the riches of small family stores. Safe and cozies. Logs split clean and the warmth of fireplace.. children’s marshmallow dreams icy leatherback football.. and saddle style backpack draws of winter. Ploughs & shovels of these sounds of ice and snow by every door; & every crossing lot.

Though may one stand out and soon to distance. Built of Blonde. ” She say you will!” Nightime notions…

Larger than what was then, or so it seemed. Little boy’s native teepee visions. Hardship be a calling in song. Hatty Carroll & such. . As the folk man meet the appraised over the appeased, in honor.

Glory ride the highway of the 61’s, the one! Latter day son always will have something kind—-forward & onwards these paths so brightly bold. A return of past..and all the last of the great North, in this ol’ Minnesota climb.

Part 2 of 3 PORTRAIT OF JOHANNA.. this afternoon..Dylan tracks in the January archive & bows, written through times and places. Guild me up a northern frost. A wind cold burn unlike all other. Then Louise, you’ll know of the progenitors..victims of loves. Arch I’ve in the bitterest of Ol’ fars, the Minnesota colds. Louise certainly must be the cure, the warmth and kindness—with Brandy in tow. Cavour and Casimir, hold her hand for just a little while; as will need to go to the observation bush, the highest tree..highest sky port; but do not judge the writer. An authored songwriter’s reprise. The goal of love is hard as the freeze on the highest hill..and the highest level to Canadian lag. Then you are there..but what of Louise? Yet just a song.. still in question?

Part 3 of 3 LATE DAY LITE RAYS.. through the timberline of Duluth. Nearing night.. Minnesota snow towel long twig, cozy up, the light of the sun’s melt. Gleams of winter’s challenges..course’s in attempted climbs. Duluth delivered the heights of wind blasts. Northern tree lines—wolves finds of salutary succulents of it’s catches.. it’s humbled in the stay. The snowplough urges in criss-cross patterns. More than fun and games. Dylan’s vision of Johanna. Wooded sets of voices through the patterned of towel like icey twig—-through the bright light of her arms. Nature’s often click..but soon dispense for another avenue, a new place to travel. The motor lodge is foreseeable in its futures. .it’s busman holidays..it’s new years eves on the road. THE DYLAN SHOW..must go on. Motor bikes and heavy travels of the likes of a Rolling Stone. Single bound turns, swerves, all on his own. We are all there for you man. Follow the 61 —– all the ways, way through—& to the dark fails of bridges of when 6 was 9. Jimi by your side.. and all those roadside sharps & flats of the banality of ‘Hillbilly’ rock lit fires; sets the tone, as 2 big stretched—-freedom riders; names of Captain America..and modern West’s ..Billy the kid, mix with its peered deadwood lawns. .and roadside—too the vacant of the deepened souths; as if more blood on the tracks. And it’s alright ma, I’m only bleeding. Deep down south’s attorney, played by Nicholson’s character role- top pass the bars..the bare examinations. Ashamed of all the weaknesses of all of men. Reshaped and re-lived at the Cann festivals..& the likes. Dylan on a higher ground of all of us. Sit and wait, because there’s more yet to say. SO SEE YOU THERE..out on the old highway, they call 61.