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Ever want to write a letter to a celebrity?  www.celebritiesfans.com is your place to find their addresses.  My letter to Bob Dylan after the jump.

In 1964, a then-burgeoning Bob Dylan took a road trip to New Orleans.  On the way, he stopped in North Carolina to visit the home of poet Carl Sandberg.  The two talked on his porch for a few minutes, but Sandberg soon excused himself, much to Dylan’s disappointment.  My letter to Bob Dylan:

Dear Carl Sandberg,

My name is Bob Dylan; I’m an artist livin’ in New York right now.  I’ll spare us the indignities of praising your virtues and get right to the heart of it.

Are there any trees in your yard that don’t thrill like they used to?  Does their springtime seem vacant, their autumn a chore?  I had to chop down a Blossoming Cherry today and it couldn’t wait one petal longer.  Knife-carved branches that once seemed immortal rested underfoot, and the neighbors helped me bundle the loss.  A new self costs a mess of petals; I sat down to write you this letter.

The television’s running; I haven’t the nerve to turn off the news.  I wish we could go back to the old days of media with mad-suspendered newspapermen barking out marching orders to the world.  It was romantic, purpose-driven, and nobly ignorant.  And best of all, you could ignore it if you wanted to.

I don’t think you or I have any special gifts, Carl, despite what they claim.  I just think that’s something people say to avoid exploring their own humanity.  We keep writing regardless to feel the god within us: “enthusiasm” to the Greeks, to me agnostic witness.

Did you follow the election, Carl?  I like this man we have now – his dreams aren’t hollowed out yet.  The enclosed orations speak more of this.  These times are meant for artists and entrepreneurs, the crossroads of which is your porch.  I’d like to sit there sometime and stare at your Cottonwood Poplars.  I’ll be sure to bring the Knob Creek; whether we have glasses is up to you.

Sincerely yours,
Bob Dylan