The woods distilled into grays and yellows. And the colors vibrated under my microscopic vision. I couldn't hear the St. Louis River sweeping around shale and slate boulders. I couldn't hear myself breathe. The birds disappeared shrinking into maggots and slipping into the small silver scars of the birchwoods. I couldn't hear anything and looked down at my hands blending into the grass and thought of Bob Dylan.
I understood how he seemed to stare off and separate the know from the noise. He wasn't an icon like Marilyn or Marley weren't icons. Especially in Minnesota. Especially in the northwoods. It was always Dylan this and Dylan that in Minneapolis which I always found it pathetic and annoying. And I liked Dylan enough, read Chronicles and thought it was one of the few recent books that had a genuine voice. I even had a "Times a Changin" poster, which I took very seriously the humour in it. The Mona Lisa grin and the ruffled brow. I woke up one night and gave it a huge barber moustache and huge barber eyebrows. Dylan, to me, wasn't an icon like Coca Cola's white signature. To be an icon is to be a dead symbol and not much more than a conduit to consumerism and not asking to be dug deeper, just giving birth to idiots. Buy, buy, breathe. Buy, buy, breathe. I am the Chang? Who is the Chang? I am the Chang! I bought the icon and erased it with a sharpie.
Gradually thoughts of Dylan slipped away and I stared at the aspens and their small round leaves. I saw everything separate into circles of color...
- by Karl Noyes
