• Introduction
  
  
• 2005 Selections
  
  
• Sarah Aclander
  • Tapes
• Katelyn Anton
  • Water Fountain
• Allison Baker
  • Two Dancers
• Patience Caprice Bona
  • Confidence
• Chelsea Clough
  • Excerpt from "The Fountain"
• Mary DiAngelo
  • Bird Man, Chapter Two
• Emily Faber
  • I Wrote a Letter
• Reed Gauthier
  • Fallen
• Amanda Nohe
  • The Sky
• Jessica Runion
  • The Age of Innocence
  • Eternity
• Mara Warner
  • Snow Piece
• Em Waugh
  • The Listener
• Teresa Yeh
  • Fireplace

Driving down to Baltimore, Jonathan handed me a tape. "Put it in," he urged, nodding to the tape deck.

I ran my fingers over the plastic case, a young man with his head cocked upward, staring, but not quite at me. Under his heavy eyes were several lines, a though he had never slept properly.

Highway 61 Revisited. Bob Dylan.

"Go on, put it in. You'll like it, I promise." Jonathan turned on the tape deck, one hand gripping the steering wheel.

I slowly opened the case, slowly pulling out the black tape, wound all the way to the start. I gently pushed the tape in, pressing back in the car seat, waiting.

The snap of a snare, a piano crashing over a raspy, cigarette-stung voice. "Once upon a time..." he spoke, as he wasn't quite singing. By no means did he have a magnificent, songbird sound. It was smoked wood, aged oak roasting in the crackling flames.

"How does it feel... to be out on your own... a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?"

He was angered, at how people will consume what they are fed—false ideals of life and wealth. How does it feel? He asked. I didn't know.

Dylan reverberated throughout the car, the harshness of his voice in my ear. Never had I heard such a song—I rarely strayed from the clutches of Top Forty radio, full of saccharin lyrics and poorly written songs regarding unrequited love. It was a musical epiphany; I only wanted to hear more.

Jonathan gave me that tape; I have it still. Having worn it through, Dylan's voice fading, I was forced to purchase another copy. It is not the remastered CD, overly clean and puritanical, nor is it the original vinyl, with it's warm sound. It is the taped copy, gritty and rough, adding to the edge of Dylan's voice. And on the cover is a young man, head cocked upward, staring—but not quite at me.