Will the Real Dylan Please Stand Up

It’s the 1960s. The room is black and white. We’re being led down a hall and up the stairs. A gentleman keeps opening doors. We walk through one and another and yet another. The man leads us on to the stage. The crowd roars. The drums rattle as the bass thumps, stepping to the mic. And now, I’m Not There.

In Todd Haynes’s I’m Not There (2007), six actors portray six characters who represent six phases in Bob Dylan’s life —though it doesn’t say so explicitly: Woody by Marcus Carl Franklin, Jack Rollins by Christian Bale, Robbie by Heath Ledger, Jude Quinn by Cate Blanchett, Arthur Rimbaud by Ben Whishaw, and Billy by Richard Gere.

It begins by stating, “Inspired by the music and the many lives of Bob Dylan.” However, it never straight out tells us that these characters are representing the person himself except to imply it through biographical echoes, images, the soundtrack, mimicking his public persona and, of course, his brief performance at the end.

I’m arguing that because these characters represent who Bob Dylan is not, this movie is not about Bob Dylan. Rather, it’s Dylan themed at best. It’s just as much about the other characters, or even about the actors playing the other characters, as it is about him — about Billy the Kid, Rimbaud, Ledger; about you or me, for that matter.

 “…the many lives of Bob Dylan.” Are we to take that literally? Do they know something we don’t? Has he literally died and been replaced by clones or lookalike actors perhaps? Is the real Dylan hiding on some remote island with the real Chappelle and the real Jim Carrey? Presley, Hendrix, Morrison and Joplin are also there.

It alludes to death —tentatively of the ego. The Tibetan Book of The dead suggests that one should recognize the radiance of the Clear Light of Pure Reality at such times. People change roles like they change clothes. Egos get beat up, bruised and discarded all the time. The fragile ego repeatedly dies and is reborn, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, like a snake shedding its skin. What if someone put on the skin left behind? Would they become the snake? “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” said Shakespeare.

Social Ghost

Identity. It’s the papers that the Nazis asked for in the checkpoint scene of The Sound of Music(1965), when the von Trapps were stopped, as they were makin’ a run for it. It’s a profile.

Identity is a wicker man passing as the real you. He has gone shopping with your credit cards —burn the wicker man! The nature of identity is nebulous.

Identity gets confused with persona. A persona is public. It’s the outward face of your social role. Carl Jung called it the statistical man. The persona is a projection, it’s controlled and situational. It’s a changeable and adjustable hologram; it’s a ghost. The statistical man is made up of facts and averages instead of what makes a person singularly unique.

Self-image, ideal self, self-esteem and persona are internalized. When they don’t match, people enter a state, that Carl Rogers called incongruence. It’s a state that all modern people are forced to endure.

The persona is the social identity. “Where the many are, there is security; what the many believe must of course be true; what the many want must be worth striving for, and necessary, and therefore good” said Jung in the Undiscovered self.

People will rip off their old skin and put on the uniform that the group has consecrated for them —the skin that will allow for acceptance. Sacrificing their individuality, at the pyre of conformity, they bow to the hive; a new identity is formed; an NPC is born.

What would it take to convincingly portray you? Is the secret in the way you dress? What are the identifiable features? Is there a hat you always wear —like Cat in the Hat; do you wear printed T-shirts —like Beavis and Butthead? Do you wear dark glasses —like Dylan and Quinn? Do you stand out in a crowd or do you blend in?

Let’s suppose that an actor was hired to play you in a feature film. What research would they do for the role? How would they walk? What mannerisms would they adopt? What words would they use? What’s the theme? What songs and tracks get  queued? If you sat in the audience of the theater watching the performance on the big screen, would you like that person?

That projection is not your true self; it’s a phantom. It’s not the “clear light of pure reality”. Recognize it. “In this third stage of the Bardo, the karmic illusions come to shine.” Bardo Thödol Chenmo (Great Liberation Through Hearing in the Intermediate State). By observing who and what we’re not, we may get a clue as to who and what we are.

Nebulous Nature

His apartment was flooded by monochromatic, unsaturated, yellow tinted light coming from a low-pressure sodium lamp outside his window. The low light was enough to illuminate the room and cast sharp shadows.

The ballast buzzed with a steady hum that reminded him of the cello section from one of Brahms’s pieces.

Periodically, the wires popped and sizzled as if singing staccato. He sat at the keyboard and typed away. He talked, aloud, to himself—If I and my ego are the subject, and the subject.… RING!-RING!-RING!… He hesitated, but picked up the phone.

“ Hello.” He said.

“ Yes, I’m calling from the office of time travel.” replied the caller.

“ Huh? Come again?”

“ I’m calling from your future.”

“What is this, some kinda joke? A crank call?”

“Look, there’s no easy open but its important. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“What are ya a tele-scammer? Whatever ya gat, I don’t want any. Please take me off yer call list.”

“Look, there isn’t much time. I can just keep this channel open for short periods. It’s in regards to your ideas on —nebulous nature.”

“Wha? Nebulous nature?” His face turned pale.

“I have a copy of your Treatise on Nebulous Nature.” said the caller

“Treatise? I haven’t even got that done. How can ya know that? But wait. Haha. You’re a call-center scammer. Nice one. Ya had me goin’.”

“No. This is not a joke or a scam Sir.”

“This is gotta be a Remote Access Terminal scam. Yer a real RAT. Ya hacked my pc. That’s how you know about nebulous nature. Now what? Wada ya want?” The insight gave him a sense of relief, but how to figure this out. Still, the RAT couldn’t have accessed any passwords —or had he?  Those files were well buried. 

“Just the most piercing and aware insight today”, said the caller, as if that wasn’t a fragment.

“That’s some trick… That frag… is that from one of my note files. Okay, so ya hacked me, now yer lookin’ through my stuff. Wada ya want? ” He reasoned that it was the PC that was compromised, that’s where his notes were saved. He pulled out his tablet then his phone. No alerts. 

“No. It’s not like that Sir. In our place and time your ideas are key to our liberty —to our justice. It’s why we’ve gone out of our way to contact you. Identity is just an illusion, like you say.”

“Yeah. All right,. So ya sayin’ that ya didn’t hack me. Yer not a RAT. Yer from the future and that’s how ya know all these things. Okay, and identity is an illusion…”

“Yes! exactly.”

“So wada ya want? Do ya know a Nigerian chief who needs my help unlocking money that’s stuck somewhere, yeah? Is that what this is? Ya wanna ransom my data? Cause you’re barking up the wrong tree buddy! Ya ain’t gonna find notin’ of value on my hard drive and I’m broke as shit. I don’t got a penny to give ya.”

“Voice biometric profile complete.”

A sharp BEEP. The call dropped.

Fuck! He exclaimed.

Young Gunthrie and the Merwomen

Young Gunthrie wakes up in the boxcar of a moving train. Malicious hobos harass him; ask him for money. They want to look in his guitar case.

“This boy can’t play no guitar. That’s were he keeps his stash.” says the Hobo as he grabs the case by the handle.

Young Gunthrie yells, “Let go! Give it back! Don’t you touch that!” He grabs it from the other end and tugs back.

The other hobos join in, pulling the guitar case away from him. Young Gunthrie pulls back harder. The hobos let go. He and the case go flying out of the boxcar, off a bridge and into the water —SPLASH!

He goes under. All is quiet. In the water strange scenes unfold. A whale swims by slowly as if investigating.

Muffled voices echo, “religious wars, and they’re fighting religious wars… a judge rejects the plea bargain… charged with bid rigging… another attempt will be made early next week… early next week… ”

He sinks deeper.

Waves of sound sweep over him. Womens voices chant and sing in chorus.

The source of the song reveals itself. It’s a school of beautiful aquatic humanoid females. They come and inspect him with curiosity. They pull him further down the abyss. It gets darker, but then there’s bioluminescence—light. It’s faint and shimmering but enough to reveal the submerged cityscape.

They bring him through the majestic gates of a sunken temple. It’s filled with gold, sparling gems, and marble sculptures. They take him past the altar and into a hallway.

They go deeper; it gets dark again. He looks over to the beautiful merwoman. She smiles, revealing jagged, shark-like teeth.

CUT TO BLACK.