last night

I went out with my old landlord in the city last night. We went to his old friend's apt in the village..this apt was the last of the mohicans..bob dylan albums everywhere, 300 dollar rent....The guy used to be friends with bob dylan and jim morrison..they both sat in the chair I was sitting in. I got hammered on red wine in the same chair jim drank in. Imagine that...I think the guy offered to call bob dylan last night---its fuzzy..I wouldnt have spoke to him....the guy was laughing because he knew I was born in the year of the monkey..he told me I was a monkey...I woke up with a monkey stamp on my hand I dont remember getting. There was a magic that was still held over from the day of the village in that apt. I cant explain it. That magic was the fuel that created dylan, there are still pockets. By magic I dont mean political stuff, I mean the magic of art and possibility and life. Many people never get close to this magic and I feel sorry for them, there is a strange magic to art...99% of my life is mining for that magic in a dark cave but the rare gems make for dead years worth every second--that moment of magic in art is beyond words, beyond human.