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| Chelsea Hotel, NY City, 1971 |
" He would call me late in the night from somewhere on the road, a ghost
town in Texas, a rest stop near Pittsburgh, or from Santa Fe, where he
was parked in the desert, listening to the coyotes howling. But most
often he would call from his place in Kentucky, on a cold, still night,
when one could hear the stars breathing. Just a late-night phone call
out of a blue, as startling as a canvas by Yves Klein; a blue to get
lost in, a blue that might lead anywhere. I’d happily awake, stir up
some Nescafé and we’d talk about anything. About the emeralds of Cortez,
or the white crosses in Flanders Fields, about our kids, or the history
of the Kentucky Derby. But mostly we talked about writers and their
books. Latin writers. Rudy Wurlitzer. Nabokov. Bruno Schulz ...
... A long time ago, Sam sent me a letter. A long one, where he told me of a
dream that he had hoped would never end. “He dreams of horses,” I told
the lion. “Fix it for him, will you? Have Big Red waiting for him, a
true champion. He won’t need a saddle, he won’t need anything.” I headed
to the French border, a crescent moon rising in the black sky. I said
goodbye to my buddy, calling to him, in the dead of night."
A Madriña teña no seu rejaso our dear buddy, Sam Sheppard...
"CONRAD" / Rolling Thunder Logbook. Sam Shepard © 1977
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| Rolling Thunder, 1977 |
Me: No
Dylan: You Should read Conrad ( Long Pause)
Me: Dou you read a lot ?
Dylan: Some
Me: Did you always read a lot ?
Me: I always read some
Me: Where´d you get the books ?
Me: People´s libraries. Just go into people´s libraries and they ´d have ´em.
"All the tired horses in the sun
How am I supposed to ger any riding done ?"
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