Alfred Kazin was a good find.

Beautiful air, looks rarified. One time before listening to Love is a Gas, I wanted a glimpse at something, this art, that was sorta disparate and over me in the briefest perspective into what seemed the right auditive wall to scale. That we can visual say our sauntering across a room, is to imagine where we presently lie in repose. To visualize what occurs beyond our scheme--this bubble of experience--is suggesting Everything IS (From Patriots, I know.), and is enough. I found what I was looking for.
Kazin says how Melville takes to the air. Because he exceeds all his ascetic indulgences--they're not good enough. The spirit is drawn in desertified self-possession, actually condemned to emptiness. Man's economy of the spirit is in recompence of life giving blood, but in hellion red hues. G^d only manifests what-is, ...there is nothing outside the known...and we advance upon it interminably.
...path

The last time I saw him alive I had stayed up late after everyone else crashed at his parents house, the appearance house, and listed in my head what I sought after in music's artists--badly identifying at all with some--his brother's influences/ favorites--and then particularly what Dylan and Marley had as a convergent little-trouble gotten over in a similar path... In the mostly pitch blackness, my glowering eyes seeing only a hint of orange from a couch, I think--I start populating the room. Not capturing anything but my indulging in arcs of imagery that seemed to be a call to Yeah Dylan. So if any one alterior self is availing, anybody else ought to be amongst in just considering what-is. So, the little brother tho' inevitably going away, and the dudes that heralded me, heralds him, and to the gathering crowd in my mind. So projecting into the room, clearly what I noticed WAS that he hadn't said look out for my love. Everyone else had. Soliciting the transcendent is goal, so holding the emptiness--there in the corner--in high esteem, tells me I am the Lakota's Yum (from the book The Lakota Myth), the real little brother who rides the backs of his siblings unto the 4 directions. It's just that one direction was the prodigy of self-possession, and I was missing my brother.
Reflecting on a wasted semite, me and thru the lens I imagine from Dylan's words - its conscious pocket and the homecoming like my obfuscated look into a mirror, the one in my brother's room where I was intro'd to his numious vocabulary and insite... Dylan may have come in from the cold while I lay there staring at an orange chosisme--thingism across this basement where we young men kicked it so many times before, and what was plastic (transitional) those times, are now clotted up in loss, sorrow, til I also meet light and finality and all-knowing. The words, "curly covered virility of a wasted Semite" came from Isaac Babel's writings, a Soviet-Jewish writer--early 20th century. What I want to typify is pathos, so that it is understood entirely thru images, and that this reality, that people are suffering can be as remote as KNOWLEDGE of SELF gets, has to be relegated to language as cheap as language may feel. Sad but true, but language is material, and thus is under our control. What we can't control is the fact of impermanence, but our control in its strange adventure and our emoting, we must allow to stream thru the certain vehicle of our relationship with these tools: language... You speak, I feel!