I had a vivid and rambling dream about Patti Smith last night. Through most of it, we were just talking quietly in a bright, white-painted New York loft. We were sitting very close, and I had to lean in to hear her. I don't remember what we talked about, but she smiled a lot and her eyes were so bright. When I got up to leave, we lingered at the door for a long time, and she hugged me over and over.I had gone to bed feeling anxious because there wasn't enough time last night to study my Spanish as much as I wanted to, and I woke up reassured.
4 comments:
Did the dream contain the punk rock goddess of our youth or the earth mother, rock n roll hall inductee with a slight mustache? Either way, sounds like a beautiful way to be given ease.
She was my hero in 1975. Saved me from a life spent listening to Styx, Journey and REO Speedwagon.
I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the future. Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and walls I've caressed. A stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of Helen, is my pleasure. I would measure the success of a night by the way by the way by the amount of piss and seed I could exude over the columns that nestled the P.A. Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off with a skirt of green net sewed over with flat metallic circles which dazzled and flashed. The lights were violet and white. I had an ornamental veil, but I couldn't bear to use it. When my hair was cropped, I craved covering, but now my hair itself is a veil, and the scalp inside is a scalp of a crazy and sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of the skin. I wake up. I am lying peacefully I am lying peacefully and my knees are open to the sun. I desire him, and he is absolutely ready to seize me. In heart I am a Moslem; in heart I am an American; in heart I am Moslem, in heart I'm
an American artist, and I have no guilt. I seek pleasure. I seek the nerves under your skin. The narrow archway; the layers; the scroll of ancient lettuce. We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly, the mole on the belly of an exquisite whore. He spared the child and spoiled the rod. I have not sold myself to God.
I had that whole thing memorized when I was about 22. I still sometimes say to myself, "In heart I am an American artist and I have no guilt," like a mantra when I feel lost in this unmoored life I've chosen.
The Patti in my dream was a little of both, but I think I always saw her as a mother figure.
My mother used to call her Patti Armpits, which riled me to no end. I didn't appreciate my mother's sense of humor nearly enough back then. Did you ever see the hilarious Gilda Radner impersonation?)
Candy Slice.....
Yep, memorised it as well. I had a friend in college, who of course killed himself cause he wanted to be a legend, was a Divine lookalike(circa Female Trouble/eyeliner shootin) and he would spout Patti all day long. Big Fag Michael Stipe loves him some Patti as well.
I'll find some time and we'll get together. Soon. Real happy the school times are fitting right in with your brain.
I've had Patti Smith dreams since the mid-1970s, and she is always calm, quiet and thoughtful in them. Isn't Patti up there with water and being nude in public as far as Freudian symbols?
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