8619. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #170

170. THE SELVEDGE EDGE

British spy novelist John

LeCarre has said, : "I am a

liar, born to lying, bred to

it, trained to it by an industry,

that lies for a living. I'm

practiced in it as a novelist,

as a maker of fiction, inventing

versions of myself realer than

the real thing, if it exists."

That was pretty good stuff,

as I read it.  Of course, for

 him it was way more, having

been born as David Cornwall,

using a made-up name, as

LeCarre, having for many

years been Britains's leading

spymaster, etc., etc. How

much more 'authentic' does

falsity have to be? It has

believability, millions and

more have bought his almost

never-ending stream of books

and thrillers. Entertainment,

I guess, but who'd to say;

there are people who lap

this stuff up. He's as real as

HE can be, then, for sure.

Once a spy, always a spy,

divulging secrets. I remember,

about, whenever it was,

2004, reading Bob Dylan's

'Chronicles,' It too was

almost laughable, with

the truth stuff being about

as fuzzy as a lamb. It open

with a scene in midtown,

this skinny 19 year old

Bob Dylan Jewish kid

getting taken to lunch

by some promoter, to

'Jack Dempsey's Saloon'

(still there, on 50th or

something), and the guy

himself (died in 1983, an

old 'Manssas Mauler' boxer),

mistakes the Dylan kid for

a novice boxer, and stupidly

says  -  'you look good kid,

but you gott'a put on a few

pounds'  - (well, I'm here

paraphrasing). It's all

balderdash and endless

horseplay. If Dylan was

a boxer, than I was a

singer. The glimmering

trick here, he's messing with

your mind -   there was a

Jack Dempsey, the boxer,

the Manssasas Mauler, but

the bar now  is called 

'Jack Demsey's', on 33rd.

A little different, and you've

been set up. I don't know

if expected the reader to

stumble, or to know the

difference. The old is old and

the new is new. I remember

over at Barnes & Noble,

they weren't sure whether

to put it in Fiction or in

Bio. I said, 'What's the

difference, and who's to

care?' There's another part

in the book, later on, when he

and one of his wives are down

in New Orleans, in what's

dscribed as some strange

voodoo guy's general store.

He starts talking some real

weird shit to Dylan, about

mystic and cosmic stuff,

and the Dylan character

(that's all it ever was) is

taking it all in. Supposed

to be heavy and deep, but

it's all a crock. Dylan walks

out of there, to move along.

He mentioned his wife, all

this time, was sitting in a

rocker, on the porch there,

reading the latest 'John LeCarre

novel.' Dylan says, as he left,

he'd bought a cap, a hat, that,

on its crown said 'World's

Greatest Grandad.' Funny

stuff; point being who

knows what about anything.

This whole world could

be written as a fiction.

-

Let's say, in the big leagues  -

when you've got a few books 

published and all, the 'truth'

soon becomes a stretchable

fiction  -  the studio or publishing

backers make up a storyline

for you, they weave a biography

just the other side of curious,

never traceable, ever, to anything.

It whets people's appettites, they

think they're 'insiders' by knowing

certain things. All false. Like

some silly fan-club for 'adults'. 

I don't think there's ever been a

truthful morsel out of Bob Dylan's

mouth. He's just a liar. You can

find him all over online  - in one

cut he's telling Ed Bradley, of CBS,

in all bullshit earnestness, about

how he made, a long time ago, a

deal with the Devil, a real deal, to

get himself to where he is  -  fame

superstardom, the Evil Kingdom.

He reiterates, in all earnest and

smug sincerity. Then, in others, 

he's all over singing Christian 

songs about salvation and Jesus

and how he's personally saved,

and there's even some of him

preaching-talking Jesus-Savior

stuff at concerts. The jerk. Too

stupid to even know the difference.

I don't think both sides of his

mouth have ever met. You can't

believe a word he says. 

-

I got to thinking about all this as

I write my own stuff here  -  all 

these layered tales and stories 

are all true. Even the most outlandish

of them like that Rarleighbourne guy.

And that ain't the half of it. It'll

all come out. I get to it. I'd never

want anyone to go ahead and

start thinking I was a boxer,

you know, just putting on

a few new pounds. The 

earliest Dylan story, just 

another one that makes me 

gag, is of his earliest, like 

age 9, story of the first time

he sang 'publically.' It was

at some family gathering,

Duluth or Hibbing, some

Jewish holiday confab. His

family puts him up to singing

for the room, cute little tyke 

that he is. He starts singing,

'Accentuate the positive,

eliminate the negative....don't

mess with Mr. In-Between'. 

That old show-tune from 

something way back. And 

then he just stops singing,

refuses to go on, until

he tells the room that he

'won't sing anymore unless 

everyone stops talking and

listens up.' Yeah, OK.

-

It's the weave, the 'warp and 

the woof' of a life. When I first
ran across those terms I had 
no clue what either warp or 
woof was. Weaving terms, 
totally cool. Like the basic 
directional fabrics, stuff both 
etched/woven and seamed for 
the garment of a being's 'self'. 
Whatever that 'self' is  -  that's
why all these guys go about
making it all up. They're
weaving, like when you're
drunk, and trying to drive 
down the road without 
being a suspect. I suppose.  
It was when I was in Elmira,
working in the print shop, we 
did a newsletter each month for 
some sewing/knitting hobbyist club.
The newsletter itself was called
 'The Selvedge Edge.' I didn't 
understand that either, and 
at first thought it was a simple
 mis-spelling of 'Salvage', like 
cloth you save or something. But 
then I learned, there really is a
 'selvedge edge', and there
really are warps and 
woofs. All amazing,
and all true.