A Fan's Notes Tarantula

The Macmillan Company, 137 pp.; $4.95

june, 1966 dear Mr. Zimmerman, among many other things I want to thank you for bringing me and my present boyfriend together, we both first thought it was "stuck inside a mobile" on Blonde on Blonde, that was how we knew we were meant for each other, then we rushed out and bought the album, now we share it but if we ever break up I get the half with Just Like A Woman.

i heard on the radio you're coming out with a book soon, anyway, the dj with the zombie voice said it was going to read like a long set of liner notes interspersed with weird letters, that's the kind of detail they give you on FM radio I used to listen to AM stations and liked Chad and Jeremy before I fell in love with you and my present boyfriend, the zombie also said the book was going to be called Tarantula, is that because it bites you once and is into your bloodstream for good? that's exactly how I feel about you and your songs. . . the only two things I don't like about you are one I hear you're not very kind to Joan Baez and two did you change your name to get ahead?

your faithful fan, mona lisa with a ponytail

may, 1967 listen, man, if you think I would bust my ass trying to be the first one into ANY fucking movie, you're wrong man, you're so wrong, so you've just gotta take it on faith when I put it to you like this: me and my old lady we slept outside the Presidio Theater in a fucking SLEEPING BAG the night before our movie opened, don't shit your grits, everybody loves a sonofabitch. that's what you and your goddamn Don't Look Back are all about, aren't they? Face it, man, you step on their heads and they love it, you cut them up in little ribbons, that science student. that Sheriff's Lady and they kiss your ass. I saw Joan Baez rub your head, I saw those English chicks giggle at you, hell, I even saw Donovan look at you funny, what is it that you've got, man? I'm sure waiting for that fucking book of yours to be ready. maybe you can fail at something.

with a grudge, ace the drummer p.s. my old lady is making me write this: FI 8-1178. ask for queen jane.

may, 1969 there's some kind of revolution going on at my university but all I can ever do is lie on my bed and listen to Nashville Skyline. I wear a red armband and read leaflets in the streets all so no one will know I am secretly humming peggy day, not the international. someone I know who used to listen to barbra streisand is now marching in nonobstructive picket lines, someone else I know is hiding in the bio labs drawing diagrams of insects till the fight is over. still and all I am keeping myself happy singing along with you and Johnny Cash. how come you're such good friends? isn't he a bit rough? I've been waiting for three years for your book to come out. that's a long time but it will be worth the wait if it's a love story. will I cry at the end? don't worry. I cry pretty easily. I used to weep over Father Knows Best.

ever apathetically, rose colored glasses

january, 1970 bobby baby- just got our hands on the Basement Tapes and wanted to let you know (before the grass grows between our toes) we think they're dynamite. DYNAMITE. fanTAStic. you've never sounded better, bubble, tears of rage is 8ooo sweet. it could break our heart in two. but like they say, money talks, bullshit walks. the point is break with Al Grossman (what did he ever give you anyway except your first million?) and let us market The Tapes. we have a deal we could set up at the psychedelic supermarket in hollywood would make Grossman wish he were three feet under please advise pronto. think twice. if you don't say yes, we're likely to hit it anyway. to live outside the law you must be honest. you said it, baby, not us. now you're paying for it.

yours in the struggle vladimir/merlin p.s. throw in the galleys to that damn fool book you've been promising and we'll throw in another hundred thou. with luck it'll sell better than Rod McKuen.

june, 1971 after six years, it had to be a disappointment, dylan. cause even if you pass it off as the same book of course it's different after six years, it has to be different after janis and otis and manson and lieutenant calley, not to mention spiro agnew and the flowering of bread and roses. some of it is pretty funny, I'll grant you that, and some of it is even sweet, in the way only you can be sweet, (like sweet and sour pork or a marguerita) but in all honesty most of it is pretty tiresome. maybe it makes about as much sense as the rest of our lives over the last six years but maybe it makes less sense less well. it gets tiresome always to be in your dreams, dylan, and never to wake up and see the light. I guess in your songs sometimes the light is in the music. perhaps there's no success like failure and failure's no success at all. is that it? bites you once and is into your bloodstream for good. cause of course I'm still after everything, faithful.

love to Sara and the kids, taurus p.s. do you remember orville freeman?