Introducing 'The Haunting Echoes of Dylan'

'The Haunting Echoes of Dylan' is one of my possible novels, which is currently ‘in process’. Fairly autobiographical, resembling a less-structured diary of sorts, names and events slightly altered due to faulty recollection and literary license. One day I just wanted to write and decided to write what first came to my head, in this case the opening lines of Bob Dylan’s ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’....

The Haunting Echoes of Dylan

‘Go away from my window. Leave at your own chosen speed.’ cascaded through the open windows into the rear corners of Flip’s mind, slowly creeping to the forefront. She pondered what do I want? What will become of me? Will I ever achieve anything of merit? Will I find love before it is too late? She knew none of the answers, but currently could only muster the self-deprecating nothings, no’s and never. She sat, cross legged like the hippy professors of yore, staring blankly at the flashingly short vertical line on the painfully blank document aptly titled Document1 while keeping an ear open for the transvestite comedian hoping for a chuckle or two resulting in inspiration or greater laughter.
Yet while she waited to write her masterpiece, her La Dolce Vita, her Bell Jar, her Campbell soup can, all she could think of were the words of the great immortal Bob Dylan. She began to wonder the deep philosophical any late teen/early adult ponders, whether life is worth it? Whether the pain, strife and anguish can be made up by the other elements of day-to-day life? Even as she sat with the light flashing in and out due to bad weather, late payments or the near-dogmatic belief of global warming, she realized that this was nothing new, nothing special, that as she wondered about her so-called mysteries of life, she only dug herself a deeper hole into cliché. She resembled more closely an overweight-version of Alicia Silverstone in Clueless than her horrendous hero, the Underground Man of Dostoevsky creation.
One of Flip’s main faults was that she idolized the wrong people, particularly men. The list ranged from Errol Flynn to the Marquis de Sade to Henry VIII. Keep in mind that these were not entirely such blatantly sexual obsessions. She barely understood the concept of sexuality, let alone was a die-hard Sadist, although she had purchased a copy of Justine at a Harvard Square bookstore, having been somewhat misguided by Quills. She saw that those who fully lived life were the only worthy of worship, much, much more on this later.
Flip was not particularly religious, but was not quite out rightly blasphemous due to a semi-formative year at a southern Catholic school. So although she had quite liberal views in most aspects, she still believed in all-controlling reason and fate that determined the roads in her life. One of these roads that she currently trudged down, hoping that the slippery rocks and mud would soon turn into the Manhattan-like paved with gold, was that of modern storytelling through screenwriting, occasionally diverting into the roles of novelist and playwright. She fell, she slipped, her knee would suffer a slight flesh wound, but somehow she would get up and start again, resembling the heroines of childhood fiction.

Tonight, Flip sat alone in her flat staring blankly at the oversized television screen. Figures were speaking, flirting, promoting, but it did not matter to Flip. Through this zombie meditation she could force out the world and just not think. She could still breathe and therefore technically live, but not have to endure the struggles of actual progress or regression, staying in this almost continuous limbo. As soon as the inevitable boredom sank in, she decided to do something slightly more constructive. She began to listen. The late night host is interviewing a flagging presidential candidate, struggling to get the audience’s attention with his compromising promises of both change and reliability, proving a strategic oxymoron. A miserable afternoon of canvassing flashed before her eyes. Going around ringing people’s doorbells telling them to vote for her chosen candidate, the one she believed could kick the highly disliked incumbent. It was not that she particularly agreed with said politician’s socially conservative views or that he would be the first Jew in the White House, possibly clearing the way for more exotic minorities. It was that she really hated the current president for having betrayed both her and her country. He lured them in with his seemingly skill-less technique in handling national tragedy to only crumble their hopes of a brighter future in which one could earn a decent amount of money while remaining socially conscious and where our country would not resemble an absolutist regime nor a Mecca of dullards. Instead, for eight consecutive years, America was stuck with both. She had done her part as a fourteen year old calling people up, knocking on doors, holding signs, all the while being jeered at by opponent supporters, having her confidence shattered over the phone and ducking eggs on a very cold New England morn. All so that children would be left behind, her Middle Eastern food order would be tapped and an estimated record 482 billion-dollar deficit for whoever is willing to take up the fallen mantle.
In the middle of this downward spiral of recollection, she then spotted Brendan Fraser, one of her youthful loves. He convinced her to be a librarian turned archaeologist. Now obviously that did not work out as planned, but still, she saw that route as a somewhat serious option scouring the Egyptian mythology and dynasties, writing her name in hieroglyphics and dreaming of finding her own O’Connell. In this quest, she also tumbled on Cleopatra, particularly a made-for-TV movie with Leonor Varela in the title role and Billy Zane and Timothy Dalton flanking as Marc Antony and Julius Caesar. Both she fell head over heels in love with, though her heels were wearing jellies instead of stilettos. This included one near fatally embarrassing fan/love letter to Mr. Zane. His classically handsome face and torso woke within her an attraction to the opposite sex while most other girls spoke of cooties and contemplated marrying each other without any idea of the implications. His muscles ripped out of his clothing, with only Brando’s Kowalski to compare. And his smile, his broad confident set of lips. He was sin. Too bad he did not get more roles to exude this quality. Without realizing, Flip had wished that he had been her Humbert Humbert, though she would easily admit she was never quite a nymphet. Actually, that’s not right, she wanted to be an Ariane to his Frank Flanagan, even though she did not play the cello and had never been to Paris while he probably has never used a dicta-phone. Flip begins to type…
Love means everything and nothing, adhering to both sets of rules.
What is that supposed to mean? Everything and nothing? What ridiculous, pretentious shit! How does one start writing? Should she just give up? No, she has to do something, she cannot spend another day watching TV and counting the number of blank pages she has not written.
Love cannot be one-sided. Unrequited is not real, but merely over bounding infatuation. It cannot be true if it cannot be real. So I am left pondering the beatings of my heart and racing of my breath for nothing, infatuated, unrequited one-sidedness. I try to forget, but there is nothing to forget yet the drink beckons me back. Before the alcohol, he is not on my mind. After alcohol, he is on my tongue, and not in the good way. I pick up the phone and text, not even call, but use flashing drunken letters to bother him. Yet what is the point. There is no point. You cannot hate someone for not loving you and you cannot force them either. Yet you cannot dismiss his presence in your sub-, un- or regular conscious. It is not love. It cannot be love. But it isn’t like. It also cannot be hate. It crosses into apathy only to heighten sporadically into passion, one-sided, but emotion nonetheless.
All she can write about is him. Flip cannot bring herself to type his name, but it continually beats with the pulsing of her temples. He rarely says more than a sentence to her anymore and has a girlfriend that he is infatuated with, yet once Flip reaches that certain level of alcohol-inducement and memory loss, she picks up her phone and asks what he is up to and the ‘l’ word slips out of her slipping lips. No one understands, quite rightly. It all just sums up to some great masochistic need to talk to him and the more he refuses, the more desperate she will become. Oh well, life goes on, hakuna matata, and other optimistic clichés. Flip decides to surrender and go to sleep. Another day wasted to watching sitcoms, comedians and chat shows and twistingly ending in a Calibri-formatted moping session.
10:04 blinks the alarm clock. Flip is nearly blinded by the flashing lights. Damn. Damn. Damn. She is about to nearly miss a seminar. She runs into the bathroom, shoves some toothpaste on her teeth and smoothes her frizzy hair into a messy ponytail. Grabbing her keys and books in one swoop from the coffee table, she walks out the door and trots down the five flights to walk onto the small busy lane. As she turns towards the library, damn.
Shit. Damn shit. It’s him. Damn it, shit. And the she next to the he has spotted her. Damn it. She’s waving, she has the nerve to wave. Flip doesn’t have time for this, just a head nod, a slight jerk of the hand and keeps walking with Paradise Lost and notebooks in tow. She keeps walking, only a few more moments, only a few more steps. ‘Flip!’ She turns. It’s him; he’s crossing the street not looking either way, quite reckless, but so was wearing the white tuxedo shirt and pants from the night before.
‘Flip! Hey!’
She might as well, ‘Hey.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Not much, just rushing off to a tutorial about Milton, not fun.’
She stops on the street in answering, she doesn’t get why she does, but somehow he… anyway… she seamlessly continues the conversation, ‘How’re you?’
‘I’m fantastic. I’m on a walk of shame.’ He grins shamelessly and expects her to grin back as “one of the lads”. Damn it.
Flip slightly smiles and weightily admits, ‘I didn’t think you would normally wear a shirt like that this early in the morning?’ He chuckles. What was she supposed to say, congrats, I’m happy you’re fucking her and seem to be very pleased, guess she’s a good lay?
‘It’s going to be a long walk.’ Okay, it’s not that long and no one else in their right mind is up, so sorry you can’t rub anyone else’s face in your radiating sexual hangover.
‘Well, have fun. See you around,’ Flip turns towards her impending doom of entering late into a nine-person class and suffering the embarrassment of everyone knowing she slept through her alarm and is not quite ready for the God vs. Satan debate.

George turned the other way and whistled merrily down the street. I finally got her. It’s been over a year, but finally she’s mine. With each step, the memories of barely moments before flooded his mind of his touch all over her long, lean, bare body. They reached a certain level of ecstasy thought only to have been achieved in mid-seventeenth century hay fields. He had known that it would be great, but could not have imagined the level of nirvana of the release of all of his efforts. She was his, she had to be, they could not have so perfectly climaxed if their love was not mutual. The strain and stress of the stress was now worth it. Now, George was going to go home, take a shower and calm down his continually racing heartbeat. Life would still go on, but now it was only better.

Why did she have to bump into him? Now, all she could think of was him, nothing specific, not his body, eyes or lips. Actually, her head rang with his voice; it was just so happy, contented, bordering onto smug. Why couldn’t she be that happy, contented or smug? Fate just did not like Flip. No matter what, she would always find herself lacking, some say it’s the human condition while others tell her to see a therapist. She wanted him. She had wanted him badly, but she guessed not badly enough. She could have forced him in some way; maybe if she had not eaten for a couple of months, years, maybe then he would have loved her. But she had to dismiss her mind of that idea, surely love was not defined merely by looks, even lust, for otherwise there would not be so many not so attractive people roaming around this world. She had to talk to someone, on to yet another conversation over the waves of technology…
‘Deb, what’s up?’
‘Not much, just watching the Hills.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Yep.’
‘Have you had lunch yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you want to meet at the general?’
‘Sure. In five?’
‘Sweet, see you soon.’
Deb’s already there waiting outside, typical. They grab some buffalo mozzarella, basil tomatoes and fruit juice at Deb’s insistence as she was on another health kick. She once convinced Flip to join her in a week-long diet of lettuce and green tea, it lasted a day and a half. Deb was not too tall, but not average. Nothing about Deb was average. She was the girl all of the guys wanted in hall and therefore most of the girls grew to hate out of jealousy. Their friendship was another example of the Lord working in mysterious ways as superficially they didn’t quite fit as Flip had been the friendly drunk and Deb had been the mysterious flirt. The third wheel of their tricycle, Jen, had even more mystique as most people did not know that she lived in hall and those that did rarely saw her both of her two sides, the student and the party animal. But, that may just be it; the three were actually not at all how they seemed on the surface. Flip seemed to most very cheerful and easygoing, but was neurotic as the best of Manhattan. Deb though most thought she was more on the bitchy side, was one of the most caring and protective people she knew, almost crossing into motherly. Jen seemed like a closeted skater tomboy, but then also was majorly intellectual and got around more than Deb and Flip combined.

‘Why do you care?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then, why are you telling me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You always tell me when you see him.’ Deb putting on a mock flustered voice, ‘“I just saw George and I said hi and then he said this and I said this and then he said that and then he left.” Seriously, Flip? I thought you had gotten over this?’
‘He initiated the conversation and I was the one who said goodbye. I’m quite proud of that actually.’
‘We need to get you a boyfriend.’
Flip chuckled nervously. She realized that this was the best solution, but somewhere deep in her gut she did not want this problem to be solved.
‘Now, eat up. We’ll need the energy.’ Deb winked.
It’s been settled. Flip would be the victim of an Austen-like fascination still found in modern society of setting up friends, because who can truly be happy when their friends are miserable. This is especially true in the three-street, 7000-student populated university town in which girls either were sluts, asexual or practically married. Conventionally, the third seems the most appealing, but still not enticing to the average 20 year-old young woman. Whatever happened to non-serious dating? Ideally, interaction that starts with randomly meeting each other, going for a coffee and if you liked each other, a lunch or early dinner within a week and then a dinner and movie and see where it goes from there. Not hooking up classily after a bop and then basically living together until one and/or the other cheats and/or gets bored, which is inevitable as everyone at university is ultimately not fully mature enough to handle such a serious relationship. Who would actually want to be? When settling down, wouldn’t it be better to have experienced life so to avoid discontent and resentment? With ignorance, ultimately comes disappointment as bliss is not everlasting.