The Bob Dylan connection…looks like it’s all about the stones…

How strange it seems to be bringing it all back home to the first time I heard Bob Dylan’s song Like a Rolling Stone. I had been kicked out of my family’s home in Fairfield Connecticut right after graduating from Bucknell University, Phi Beta Kappa and University Honors (one of two and the only woman to do that) because I had taken a job in New York City. I found myself on a lazy Saturday afternoon walking down 57th street with thirty dollars to my name and a month’s railroad pass. My first month’s salary was going to pay the employment agency that found the job for me — at MONY, on 1740 Broadway. I found a place to stay and it all worked out ok, but when I first heard that song the following year, I thought it had been written about me. All I could hear was the screeching, mocking voice of Dylan. I tuned him out after that. For a very long time.

But now it is all coming together, and the connection makes sense, as it looks like Bob Dylan and his people had been receiving information about me from my birth family, without my knowledge and consent. And some of it seems to have ended up in some of his songs. The intent appears to be to create a false reality that would cause me to lose hope…

I discuss this at my blog, Dylagence…https://dylagence.wordpress.com/

Here is an example…

And at the center of the vortex…

It looks like Bob Dylan has been stoning me, to try to cause me to feel slandered and humiliated…and encouraging his insider fans to do the same with the oblique references in some songs coming from ‘inside’ information from my birth family…

The Dylan connection seems to be in the vortex.

I can’t change that, even if I wanted to.

The battle seems to be in the vortex.

The battle is already won…

A missing piece…

I had an insight today that may help to explain some of the curious behavior of my birth family at the end of my senior year of high school, when I was preparing to go to college. All of a sudden, it seemed, my Father decided to leave his job as a lab mechanical engineer at the Bassick Company in Bridgeport, CT.  This was the job that had brought us from the Midwest to the East Coast in the first place.  It was a stable job, and Bucknell was not an inexpensive school.  Back in those days there was no financial aid, per se, and only good students who were truly indigent received scholarships — or so I was told.

He decided to switch to a job that was commission-based.  It required traveling in a territory that included New Jersey and Pennsylvania.  Everything seemed to be hush-hush about this, so I did not ask a lot of questions.

That summer we went to South Dakota for a family reunion. It became evident to me that my Father was not his usual self.  I did not know what to make of it.  Nor did I have any understanding as to why this was happening.

During my senior year I consistently made my own breakfast and lunch (for school).  The only meal that was cooked for me was dinner.  Ironically, my Mother suddenly decided to get up early and watch me make and eat my breakfast every morning.  I found this odd, as she usually liked to sleep in.  When I asked her she said, offhandedly, something about “your Father wants me to do this.”  Odd, again.

Every morning when I left the Fairfield house I shut the door on the pain and trauma connected with it.  I had to do that in order to function at school.  And so, no matter how uncomfortable I was having my Mother stare at me as I downed my soft-boiled egg on German rye bread toast, I somehow managed to leave all of that behind.

It was about three weeks into my first semester that I said to myself, “Wow, I haven’t thrown up since I’ve been here.”  This tended to confirm my suspicions as to what had happened in the Fairfield house.  But, it seemed, the next thing I knew, my Father had almost died by his own hand.  As you can imagine, my only focus was on his well-being.

Fortunately, he recovered.  And he managed to keep his job.  He always made sure to stop at Bucknell when he was in the area.  He insisted on taking not only me, but also my friends, to have a bite to eat at the Bison, the local hang-out…

 

 

 

 

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