Patti Smith

Tonight B. invited me to hear Patti Smith read from her new book, Just Kids, about her relationship with Robert Maplethorpe. It seems odd now that I never really explored her work before. I guess I thought she was more like Dylan who I don't have a passion for.

She's completely different. In someways, I now wish I'd never overlooked her. But in other ways, I feel like the timing is so right, so perfect, for me to be introduced to her tonight. She's fifty some years old. She's no longer the shy young girl or the defiant “punk sewer rat” as she called herself. Her tone is genuine, calm, steady and generous with her love, but never effusive. Her voice is mellowed and true, like oiled wood. It resonates with me.

At home, looking back over the videos of her – a powerhouse of a woman – a force – a true goddess – she had her wit and her defiance. I am glad I didn't come to know her then. Now is the perfect time. A punk rock Queen aging gracefully and truly. That is something to admire. A lesson to narcissistic youth to appreciate the beauty of aging. She's more beautiful because she expresses herself with full confidence.

She read excepts from her book and told vivid stories of her fabled past from her Chelsea days. She answered questions from an interviewer and then she got up, and along with her accompanying guitarist, she picked up her acoustic guitar and sang three songs. The first I don't know, but she dedicated it “to a young poet named Melissa.” Then My Blakean Years and then Because The Night.

All beautifully rendered; soulful, smooth and reverberating among the books softly like a thin reed dipped in honey.

And she did all this in New York, in a bookstore.

New York, I kind of have a crush on you again.

01.11.10

Photographer Unknown
Am I a cliché? I prefer "Archetype." But we will get to that later.

I am supposed to be silken voiced maiden. A raven haired, sloe-eyed beauty, pregnant with poignant pauses and dainty feet dressed in snakeskin and buttery Italian leather.

But I let the dark-skinned intellectual go. I just didn't have it in me to teach another boy how to control his anger. And it was becoming tedious dealing with his cycle of his humanity-hating wrath.

Now I am sweatpants and glasses pushed up my nose pouring over research on my book. The solitude is a welcomed relief. My dreams have opened up and taken me to places of transformation. Places where reality is directly manipulated to create a new path to walk across/through or breathe in. The whale came back. It's been at least 15 years. Relief. I thought that perhaps I had ventured so far from my soul just to live in this city that the whale was gone. There is a whole side of me, literally – the holistic side – that is trying to figure out how to live in this city with daily integrity. How not to let the competition and greed poison the soul. I am so not made for this town, yet my sense of competition keeps pushing me forward. I will not let it get the best of me. I will make it balance out. Yet, I'd prefer that it was my curiosity and sense of absurd humor that was pushing me forward...

I am in the job hunt – the landlord has been kind, I am blessed. The book proposal is coming along...not true. I haven't worked on it since Christmas. I got caught up – there was the ex with the Persian rugs. There was the final love shivers of the dark-skinned intellectual. I loved his poetry the most. And his daily ritual. I never met anyone so dedicated to their daily routine. It was fascinating. And I miss it. He denied my advances if it was too late on a week night. Occasionally, on the precipice of midnight he would give in to my kisses or my hand wandering down to scratch his thigh and stroke his cock...

Even so, since him I've dabbled with a Brit who likes to be my daddy. He likes to smack my bottom and tie up my wrists...

Ultimately, this whole thing is to find my voice. I am looking for it. It got lost somewhere between the love of my life I had for ten years and the handful of lovers since. Mine. My voice. Boys begone. Bad boys begone. And the drugs... Whiskey, you naughty whore, pack your bags.

I need a Mexican beach...

I am a cliché, it may be true. A statistic, maybe. But our heritage of self-inquiry has ultimately turned the female journeyer into an archetype. In truth, I am my own self. And I won't let anyone else love me until I love myself.

To my sisters, I dedicate this blog. To the girls. This is one woman's journey on the rocket ship NYC.