Is Bob Dylan Real? (A Bob Dylan Story, Chapter 9)

a dr ed sailor. It is day nine, August six, nineteen sixty six, here in Middletown, New York, and this is another report on patient Robert Zimmerman, a k a. Bob Dylan. Bob is approving physically and mentally. He is getting stronger, but there are still some issues to sort out. He seems fragile and in my inn, you'll need to recuperate here for a little while longer. His men's are

being reduced, but he's still reliant on them. This brush with death, as he calls in the motorcycle crash has brought on a lot of reflection and he has become very aware of his um mortality. He seems to see the world as a much older man now, a much wiser man. Perhaps he's talking like he's aged fifty years in a few days. You get to a certain age and you have to consider mortality. I don't worry about my mortality in a personal way. I worry about the

world's mortality. I think about the death of the human race, the long, strange journey of the naked ape. Not to be light on it, but every life is so transient. Every human being, no matter how strong or mighty, is frail when it comes to death. I've died many times as many times as I've lived, but I'm under no illusions. One day it will be the end for real. Sometimes the path that you're walking gets too narrow to walk. Sometimes you've just been on the job too long. Life

reduces us all. It turns us all to dust, all to memories, all too blood. On the tracks. Chapter nine is Bob Dylan real hm h. I feel the wind blackly at first, then it picks up. I breathe in deeply. The air is damp and cold. There's a bitter taste to it all. I turned to look at the heavens, and all my eyes can see is blackness stretching out from here to eternity. The nineties, Man, that decade was

a washout at times. I still performed a lot of dates each year, but the creative births of becoming a Wilberry and reconnecting with inspiration on O Mercy We're a distant memory to me. Now that person wasn't me anymore. I was lost again, a little boy scratching around, a little boy lost a certain age. I started to make albums in my garage, which, while liberating, was a far cry from other records I've made. I didn't know where I would go next, what life I was going to live.

That became a major concern of mine. That was quickly replaced with an even greater concern something I'd never expected. You have to consider mortality. In December of I came off another leg of touring and started to think about my next record. It was going on seven years without an album of original songs, at least original songs that were new, what with Greatest Hits albums, those two Folk Standards albums, and that unplugged thing for MTV that was

a trend at the time. Hell I'd practically made that whole unplugged thing into a trend thirty years before, and despite my draft of creativity, I could feel in some of those shows towards the end of that tour that the needle was beginning to move, no matter how strong or mighty, or it was a bleak winter, I went to my farm in Minnesota. I still remember arriving as the snow was starting to fall. Man, I didn't know what was waiting for me there. I kept a journal

from that time. I'd like to read from it to you. Day one, temperature check, thirty three point five degrees. I arrived here in darkness, darkness everywhere, the sort of darkness that engulfs everything. When I awoke this morning, there was snow. It was crisp and white, like a movie, covering the entire landscape. I planned to stay here as long as possible. Day two, temperature check thirty three point nine degrees. The snow has fallen for the last two days solidly. I'm

not sure I'll be leaving anytime soon. Maybe it's affecting me. I awoke in the middle of the night, coughing and short of breath. It was a long tour I have to remember that. Day three temperature check, thirty two points six degrees. I'm snowed in, completely stranded. The outside world is completely removed from me. My brother David, who usually lives here, is a way, so it's me alone mortality. I've started to write too, what else is there to do?

It's come on pretty strong these last couple of days. I find myself writing on anything, torn cigarette packets, old cereal boxes, in the margin of a newspaper. I'm scribbling down ideas the moment they come to me. At least the snow is helping me concentrate physically, though I feel worse. What's the matter with me? I can't say. Sometimes you've just been on the job too long. Shortness of breath, tiredness. They're all here, They're my only bedfellows at the moment.

Day four temperature check, thirty two point two degrees. The snowfall improved a little yesterday, but it's gotten worse today. I've spent a lot of time resting, but the writing it's gaining traction. There's some real songs here. I'm going to ask Daniel Lanois to produce them. They need to be handled properly. Day five, temperature check thirty one degrees. I called the doctor tonight. My shortness of breath has been replaced by chest pains, stabbing hot irons in the

center of my torso every life is so transient. The doc said it's fine and I need to rest up. But that's all I've been doing. Another two songs finished today. One was about another place, a sparse place like this, a place full of mountains, locks, you know those Scottish places, and fulfillment. I'm getting cabin fever here. Day six, temperature check thirty degrees. I called the doctor again. The chest pains are worse, so is the snowfall. The long, strange

journey of the naked ape. I feel a little bit like a prisoner here. Day seven, temperature check thirty degrees. I'm writing this by the fire. I celebrated completing another few songs with a drop of whiskey tonight, but it made me feel the worst I've felt since I got here. I don't know what's happening to me, but it doesn't

feel right. You get to a certain age. I'll call the doctor again tomorrow, but I didn't call them after writing those journal entries I got up from the large armchair, which had been my base camp during that cold snap, and I felt the room fall away around me. I remember the thud of my whiskey glass against the rug, the dull bass drum like hit that sounded out. My chest felt like there was a lasso around it, my mortality. I tried to breathe, but it was like they were

tacks in my lungs. I gulped in what air I could as I hit the deck. I sat there, not quite lying down, but not sitting. It was like I was in a strange, terrible slump, the sort of awkward position your body takes when you've lost control when it comes to death. I thought this was it. It was the end I'd seen lives in many times before, but this time it was different. I couldn't see another one on the horizon. The path that you're walking gets too

narrow to walk. I fumbled around for something to winch myself up with. I looked at the arm of the chair and grabbed it. My limbs like steel girders. I tightened my grip on the chair like a mountain climber. I could hear my breathing now too. It was heavy and labored, unproductive, like the oxygen was leaking out somewhere, like it wasn't getting into my blood. I'm under no illusions. I felt faint and stars crossed my eyes, but I knew I had to get up, Just get up. My

hand shook on the arm of the chair. I pushed down hard on it, forcing some pressure. Slowly I started to rise. My feet shook as they took the weight of my body, but eventually I was standing. I grabbed the phone on the side table and dialed my doctor's number. My hand quivered as I dialed. Something was terribly wrong. Time was running out to make it right. One thing was becoming clear to me. I was going to have to stare death in the face. I didn't know it then,

but it would happen because of the strangest thing. The gray cloud hangs low like a canopy of dread. The rain falls, and the wind starts to blow. It feels like an apocalypse. I eventually got off the farm. The snow eased, and so did my symptoms. I saw the doctor. Of course, he put my symptoms down to stress, and so I carried on. But I could tell something wasn't right. In May of that year, I turned fifty six. Man,

you have to consider mortality. I felt at least seventy like something was slowing me down, but I didn't know what. If the doctor said I was fine, then I was fine. Right. We had a party for my birthday at home in California. Everyone came, a million dollar bash. Really, it was just an excuse to get the family together. There were quite a few of us by this point. My daughter Maria and her family came. I could tell what she was

thinking the moment she arrived. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek, but as she looked into my eyes, she seemed worried. Concern was written all over her face. Times when she asked how I was, I shrugged and said busy, But she didn't buy it. She's too clever for that. As we walked up the stairs to the main part of the house, I felt it again, that shortness of breath and feeling of tacks in my lungs. Sometimes the path that you're walking walk. I didn't want

to worry Maria, so I kept walking. I concentrated on the steps to take my mind off the pane one two, three, four steps, But I didn't count the fifth stars appeared across my eyes again. I grabbed the handrail to stop from falling. Maria spun around and I smiled. She still

wasn't buying it, but she didn't say anything. One day, it will be the end of Later, in a packed living room, with the Pacific Ocean mysterious and dark right outside the window, and the sun just nestled above it, we're saying happy birthday, mainly for the kids, not for me. A huge cake emerged from the kitchen. I got to my feet, feigning annoyance. It's a little act I like to do for everyone. But as I did, I felt

something pass over me, a cold, anxious feeling. My heart rattled around my chest as the singing got louder, get to a certain age. Happy birthday to you, they sang, as my heart thudded in my ears, louder and louder. Boom boom, Happy birthday to you, boom boom. The cake was brought closer and has the flickering candles blurred in my failing eyesight. All I could do was force another smile. A second later, I coughed and felt my lungs rattle. I gasped, sucking in air, but it only gave me

momentary relief. I felt like my lungs were leaking again, like they couldn't hold onto anything, like like the bottom had fallen out. I'm under no illusions as this was happening. I could feel something else in my slight, feverish state. I could feel someone staring at me, their eyes burning me. Of course, everyone in the room was looking at me, but only one person was staring at me. I thought, for one awful moment it was Jesus himself. I felt like I was back in that Tucson hotel room. Is

this it? I thought? Is this the end? You have to consider mortality? I scanned the room full of familiar faces, and that's when I saw Maria standing there, eyes fixed on me. She looked different from everyone else way. I quickly realized why she wasn't singing. Everyone else was dutifully going through happy Birthday, but Maria, she was silent, mouth shut, staring at me in disappointment and concern. The song finished and there was silence. Come on, Bob, someone shouted as

the cake was presented to me. Still feeling woozy, I took in a deep breath. My lungs crackling as I did, I mean they audibly crackled. It became the only sound in the room. When it comes to death, I blew with all my might. About a quarter of the candles went out. I blew again. A few more extinguished. The room felt awkward. One of my grandkids was sent forward to finish blowing out the candles, and then there was this weak clap as they all went out. I looked

up and saw Maria still staring right at me. Later, I just grabbed a beer from the fridge, and when I turned around, she was there looking concerned. Again. You're not well, she said. That's how she opened it. No pleasantries, The long strange journey of the Naked Ape, the doctor said, I replied, but she cut me off. I've called another doctor and I want you to see him. She replied. What was I supposed to say that? I felt, Okay, that was a lie. I'm under no illusions, please, she said.

In that moment, she saved my life. Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital, Maria's doctor took one look at me and convinced me to go for tests. He asked about my lifestyle and said he was worried about my heart. I should have been more worried too. There were nights where I couldn't breathe properly, days where my heart ran like a tommy gun. I thought I was on my way to see Elvis real soon one day it will be the end of the end of the end.

I remember being in the hospital. There was a needle in my arm and a pad on my heart, you know, the usual. I gazed up at the solid white ceiling tiles, thinking about nothing, just nothing at all. Just then the door to my room opened and in came the doctor, Mr. Dillon. He said, you haven't had a heart attack. I sighed, relieved. The doctor's face tensed up as he continued. But it

is still very serious, he said. He told me the problem was that there was an inflammation of the sack around the heart, preventing the heart from expanding and filling correctly a certain age. He showed me a little drawing on his legal patent. I knew straight away that he was right. It felt exactly how he was describing it. The whole thing had put my lungs in the can too. The doctor told me it was down to a fungal infection. What's it called. It's some pistol plasma capsulate him. That

was it. I memorized the name. It's a fungus that grows in the soil. Tablets would fix it, but I wasn't out of the woods yet. There would be work to do in a mystery to solve as well. Life produces us all. Any idea how you would have come into contact with something like this, the doctor asked. I couldn't think of anything, so I went back to staring at the ceiling tiles. As I lay there, I suddenly remembered something, something I hadn't thought about in a very

long time. Sometimes you've just been on the job too long. I remembered another bed I'd laid in. This was in another life, when I was another version of myself. There was another time where I saw mortality creep across my horizon. It was that doctor ed Taylor's house all those years ago, right after that motorcycle crash. I suddenly recalled lying in a bed at his house in Middletown, somewhere near Woodstock, and dreaming about my life, dreaming about what had happened

and what was to come. And that got me thinking at me remembering again the reason I was, if you'll excuse a little bit of self quoting, knocking on Heaven's door once again, there was another damn motorcycle. We'll be right back after this word word word. There's fog everywhere now. I can feel in my nose, in my hair, and my eyes. I can't really see anything. A cough and cough again. I have no idea where I am. I've been in this for too long. I feel like I'll

never make it home. I feel like I'm trapped here now. I start to wonder if this is even real life anymore? Did I die? Am I in some sort of purgatory? Motorcycles? Fucking motorcycles. I love them. They have always been a symbol of freedom or escape for me, but they have always been my potential downfall too. There was a motorcycle involved in the death of that biker Robert Zimmerman, when

he died in front of his Hell's Angels buddies. There was a motorcycle involved when Bob Dylan you used to know, died on that Woodstock road. And there was one when I was reborn. At this point of my life, a long strange journey, you see, I've been in the wilderness. Like I said, ever since I had stopped preaching about Jesus, there had been ups and downs. My time is Lucky Wilberry and a couple of good records aside, there were a lot of downs. But something happened from onwards. I

became someone new again. Is so transient Waiting for me in this new life would be Grammys number one singles and a Nobel Prize. Even if I did wait about a half a year to pick up that thing. I just had to shed this former existence that had been dragging me down for too long. Now. I told you before, but I'll tell you again. You cannot force these things. You have to wait for when the universe is ready to gift you a new life, even if it doesn't seem like a gift. At the time, we were playing

a show in Indiana before the gig. We had some downtime in the day, so I took my motorcycle out for a ride. You know, I never stopped riding after that would stock crash Man, That crash may have made me more of a rider. If anything. I was riding through a swampy area. It was deserted, strange kind of mythical. I rode and rode, just me and my bike. After a while, I noticed the sky was changing. What had been a cloudy day was turning into a storm. The

black clouds were appearing quickly. Now the wind was picking up two. I don't worry about my mortality. I started to feel the resistance against me and the bike, and then I felt the first drops of rain on my face. I goosed the throttle, going faster, and the bike roared as the wind rushed around its shell. Faster and faster I went as I felt the resistance grow. Then, all of a sudden, I thought of that Hell's angel, poor Bobby zimmermans All. I could see the wreckage of his bike,

the blood on the pavement, the gasoline spilling out. I slammed on the brakes. I was panting at the side of the road. I don't know. Some people might call it a panic attack. I'm not sure about that, but either way, I stood at the side of the road as the wind and rain came down. I watched the force of it battered branches and send birds off their course. One day it will be the end of the wind. Howled like an angry beast, and then the rain fell

harder and harder. Everything around me was damp and sludgy. With one huge rush of wind, my bike fell to its side as the air rushed around me. I didn't go and pick it up. Instead, I looked for safety. I ran to a small covering where some trees stood close together. I crouched down as the rain pummeled the swampy landscape, moss and water whipping my face and knocking me off balance. I lay there in the dirt, my

hands over my head soaked right through. I shut my eyes tightly and listened to the rain hit the leaves of the trees. It felt like a vengeful god wreaking revenge on a sinful landscape, every human being, no matter how strong or mighty. I laid there as still as possible, waiting, just waiting. Slowly, but surely it passed. When the rain began to slow, I sat up and watched the storm move over the landscape. I began to marvel at it. I worry about the world's mortality. When it was gone,

I was left with a sense of calm. The silence returned to the area, but with it came a dense fog I've never seen a fog like it. It was thick and humid, like a wire wool. It was scratchy in my throat and rough on my eyes. I started to ride back to the hotel, but I couldn't see where the hell I was going to a certain age, I had no idea what was in front of me or behind. Tried to get my bearings as I rode. I sucked the air into my lungs, but it wasn't

like normal air. It was weighted, like my body couldn't use it. I kept coughing, coughing, coughing, like there was a rattlesnake in my throat thrashing around. You have to consider mortality, man. I must have coughed all the way back to the hotel. By the time I finally got there, I crashed through the lobby, still coughing, sprinting past Larry Campbell, my guitar player. He asked me if I was okay. I couldn't even answer him. I just held my hand up.

I ran to my villa in the hotel grounds, falling through the front doors. I grabbed the water bottle from the ice bucket and down to the whole thing. I slumped down with my back against the front door, gasping. What the hell was that? I shouted out loud. Pistol plasma capsulate him, man, that's what it was. The doctor told me. I caught it from the droplets in the fog. It's common in the South. Apparently most people get it and get over it with drugs, but left unchecked it

can you guessed it be life threatening. It can make you think you're having a heart attack. Thankfully, we caught it just in time. Even though I've lived all these lives, it felt like, for the first time in my life, I've escaped death, which in itself led me to a renewed sense of life. For once, I didn't feel like I transfigured. I felt like I was getting a second chance out of life, and I took it. My album Time out of Mind came out shortly after all this

and was the perfect start to my second chance. It would become one of my most revered records. Critics would call it a rebirth, and it would lead to a run of albums and tours that would define this part of my career. Not like I care what they think, but I do admit that I pay attention sometimes regardless my entire working life changed for the better. This new era would challenge the very best of my work. How did I celebrate a new lease of life? Well, it's

only fair. I paid my respects to God's representative on earth, So that's exactly what I did. The man sits in the chamber alone. The cold, imposing stones of the Vatican wall stares back at him in silence. The bell sounds in the distance. The man quickly rises to his feet, and, despite his age, blows out the candles in the room. He exits through a large wooden door with speedy purpose. In years to come, Joseph Allowicious Ratzinger will be known as Pope Benedict, But right now, in August, he is

a Cardinal, Cardinal Ratzinger. To be precise, these are two names on the Cardinal's mind that day. One is Pope John Paul the second then the other is Bob Dylan. The Cardinal walks impatiently down the vast halls of the Apostolic Palace before he has met by the Pope's private secretary. The Holy Father is ready for you now, says the officiant voice. The cardinal enters the large sitting room. It's ornate furniture taking up space, and priceless works of art

framing the walls. Sitting there in the middle of it all in complete silence, is Pope John Paul the Second. After initial greetings and pleasantries, including Italy's finest espresso, the Pope gets to the meeting's main agenda, next month's guest. This the Cardinal not keen on hosting him. I beg you, my grace, the Cardinal replies, is this the right direction? The Pope stands up from his comfy armchair and walks to a vast window. They call him a prophet, you know,

he responds, in all seriousness. The Cardinal looks confused. They do. The Pope continues to stare out the window while speaking to the Cardinal. Sometimes we have to let other people do are talking for us in a way that we cannot. The Cardinal disagrees. He responds with all due respect, that his holiness could not be serious. It all sounds like cheap vivality. Silence hangs in the air, and the Pope

continues to stare out the window. The Cardinal, hoping to make his point of view crystal clear, decides to let the silence continue, But as the silence grows louder and louder. The cardinal can't take it. He fears the islands might shatter the chamber if it goes on any longer. Holy Father, he begins, surely you can't expect Bob Dylan to share

a stage the place hosts of saints and profits. Pope John Paul turns around with his chest and heads silhouetted black against the vast windows, redeeming light opens his mouth to speak, yes, Yes, I do. Two months later, people stand outside the Vatican. The crowd faces two stages, one featuring Bob Dylan standing in front of a microphone, and the other on which Pope John Paul. The second sits

surrounded by cardinals and bodyguards. Bob Dylan is about to release Time out of Mind, his best album in over a decade. Early sales projection suggests it will be a best seller for even longer. Some of his peers, like Elvis Costello, say it's his best album ever. But right now, a new album is the last thing on Dylan's mind. He stands on the stage waiting for his queue. When it comes, Dylan doesn't start straight away. He waits for a few seconds before starting on his own, a rendition

of knocking on Heaven's store. During the song, he gazes out at the three thousand people in front of him, all the while feeling the undeniable presence of the Pope to his side. Dylan sings the words he has sung hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. He thinks about his own life, about his relationship with the Almighty, his lessons from God. He wonders what that different form of him, the preacher man he once was, would think of him now, just

feet away from God's representative on earth. He thinks about the hotel room in Tucson, the one where he felt the presence of something holier than holy, the cross he wore on that stage, that fever. He hardly remembers that preacher man. Now, with his recent hospital visit, a new album ready to go, he can feel a new day dawning, a new horizon uning in the new morning. And then the gig is over all three songs. It goes by even faster than he expected. As he had been instructed

to do. Dylan walks to the other stage, jumping up the little steps to where his holiness sat. As he does, he slips just to split second on a step, terror takes hold of his body. He's about to fall in front of three thousand people, in front of the Pope, in front of the Lord himself, but he manages to think quickly and act quickly, regains his footing and finds his way to the top. The crowd roars. Dylan greets the Pope by removing his big stetson. Thank you, he

says to his Holiness. The Pope replies for his own thanks. The Pope blesses Dylan, and with it his new lease on life begins. The next day, the Cardinal reads he excited reaction to Dylan's performance in the newspaper, just a few lines, and then he tosses it onto the breakfast table.

Something else catches his eyes. He does a copy of Newsweek magazine on the cover as a man in a stetson hat, and the Cardinal reads the large writing at the top of the picture Dylan's first Newsweek front cover for twenty three years, and then he reads the headline at the bottom, Dylan lives, and the Cardinal cox his head to the side. The man in the photo looks different than the man he saw performed just the night before,

not older, or younger in age, just different. The man on the magazine cover looks renewed, decluttered, like he has experienced something painful and emerged out the other side, like he's left something behind. But Cardinal can't quite find the right phrase for it at first, and then it comes to him the man had gone through a transformation. He may not even be the same man who performed alongside

the Pope. Suddenly it becomes clear to the Cardinal, but the man on the cover of Newsweek has relinquished something that had been doing him harm, and in doing so left in his wake. Blood on the Tracks. Blood on the Tracks produced by Double Elvis in partnership with I Heart Radio. It's hosted an executive produced by me Jake Brennan, also executive produced by Brady Sadly. Zeth Lundie is lead

editor and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, Story and copy editing by Pat Healey, Mixing and sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score elements by Ryan Spreaker. This episode featured Chris Anzeloni is Bob Dylan. Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com on the Blood on the Tracks series page. Follow Double Elvis on Instagram at double Elvis and on Twitch

at s grace and Talks. And you can talk to me per Usual on Instagram and Twitter at disgrace Land, Pond, rock Away type rages, r dand